


The Play's the Thing: a Shakespeare Mix-Up

by Onmyliteraturebullshitagain



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Macbeth - Shakespeare, Othello - Shakespeare, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Badass Juliet, Ballsy Juliet, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Bisexual Character, Books, Boys In Love, Dorks in Love, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Character, Hamlet and Horatio and Juliet are bros, Hamlet has depression and anxiety, Hamlet is a wreck, Hamlet loves Horatio, Hamlet's not a murderer, Horatio is the best, Horatio loves Hamlet, Humor, LITERALLY, Literature, Lost Love, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Open to Interpretation, Pining, References to Depression, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, References to anxiety, Sort Of, Story within a Story, books are sentient, boys sucks at talking, fictional characters live their own lives, references to nightmares/insomnia, running through Shakespeare's works, shakespeare mix-up, too many Hamlet quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onmyliteraturebullshitagain/pseuds/Onmyliteraturebullshitagain
Summary: When a forgotten Shakespeare collection gets a bit confused about its plot lines, Hamlet and Horatio find themselves thrown into other stories and have to muddle their way through these new plots and the characters they're supposed to play. Soon joined by Juliet, this lost trio works their way through multiple plays and roles as they try to get back to Denmark and track down the misplaced Romeo.But Hamlet's still haunted mentally, Horatio's still carrying some buried feelings, and Juliet is willing to do anything to get back to her husband. Together, they'll changes the Shakespeare canon (at least in this one printing) forever.A humorous exploration from an English professor who wanted a chance to redeem Hamlet (her beloved emo dumpster goblin) and see just what Shakespeare's characters could do when faced with the wrong stories.
Relationships: Hamlet & Horatio, Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet), Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague
Comments: 62
Kudos: 55





	1. Part 1 - What Dreams May Come

**Part 1** : A Shakespeare collection gets confused and starts mixing up stories and plot lines, throwing Hamlet and Horatio into a whole new play. (Draws from  _ Hamlet  _ and  _ Romeo and Juliet _ )

Chapter 1

People forget sometimes that the characters in those books we leave up on the shelves continue their lives without us. Sure, when we pick the book back up and choose a place and read, they step back into their plot and allow us to follow along. But while we're not there, the book itself closed and quiet on the shelf, they resume those normal conventions of living that typically get ignored in writing: sleeping, eating, taking walks and buying groceries and writing letters and whatever else they don't have time for in their main plot line. It's a simple enough rhythm--they know their lines and stories and motivations and they act them just as they should when readers need them.

But every so often, for whatever reason, the large volumes that get forgotten and left closed and shelved too long get a little bit confused. Sometimes they'll lose the separate threads of plot and character that are meant to connect and instead toss together bits and pieces that aren't related, aren't meant to touch.

Typically, it just takes a diligent and dedicated reader finally picking up the volume and cracking it open again to get the pieces back in place. The book remembers what it was meant to be and shoves the characters back where they belong, and no one is ever the wiser. Sometimes, though, there's no such reader, and a jumbled book remains jumbled. Then, for better or for worse, the solution falls to the characters themselves to create.

So it happened that in a very old, very small, very disused bookshop, there lived a volume of Shakespeare's collected works. It was on a back shelf near a clump of poorly sorted textbooks since this particular volume was one of those collections with the original writing on one side and a modern translation on the other. It didn’t include every play, just a lot of the main ones, and it had, at one point, belonged to a student who had been forced to read a few of said plays for a required class. She'd marked up the pages of  _ Hamlet  _ and  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ and  _ Macbeth _ with a red pen where it seemed appropriate, made notes for herself in the margins of  _ Much Ado _ and  _ Midsummer’s Night’s Dream _ , and circled words and phrases on the original language side that might work for her essays. But after the class ended, she'd sold the volume to this bookshop, where it had been improperly tucked between two much larger books--one  _ Norton Book of Classical Literature  _ and a 3rd edition of  _ Chemistry: Matter and Change _ \--and promptly forgotten. There'd been a newer publication of that particular version, and more students were buying their books online anyway, and so for years, there sat that collection of plays. The characters lived their lives, undisturbed and unending, until the poor book got just a little confused.

And that's where our story begins.

Chapter 2

Hamlet was in a mood. 

Granted, since his dad had died and then returned as a ghost, there were far fewer times where he  _ wasn't _ in a mood than when he was in one. And at least this time they were in a back room of the castle, well away from his normal triggers or his need for an "antic disposition," so for now, Horatio simply sat back and let the prince pace and talk. They'd become friends at college, far from the present drama, and it was obvious in Hamlet's appearance. He was still wearing all black, the tall, skinny, twenty-year-old stripe of him, which just exaggerated the paleness of his skin and the aggressive gestures of his hands as he orated. Horatio watched, mostly unperturbed. He'd known Hamlet and his ways long enough that it actually took quite a bit now to get him perturbed at all. So one more long and wild rant about his uncle and his mom and the ghost and mortality and philosophy and whatever else he could moan and rail and agonize over was hardly cause for concern.

If there'd ever been the epitome of a verbal processor, Horatio mused, then it was Hamlet. 

"To think," the prince spat, hands tight in his pockets, "my own  _ uncle _ \--but you know I've always thought there was something slimy about the guy--"

Horatio nodded when prompted, smiling slightly. He didn't mind listening, not really. He knew what Hamlet dealt with here, how heavy everything weighed on him all the time, so he liked being there as a form of support. And he was maybe a little in love with the prince, so being a sounding board and voice of reason wasn't so bad. Or, it was good enough at least. 

Well, fine, it was the awkward scrap of something that Horatio could get without expressing anything about himself or telling the prince how he actually felt.

"There's so much more to this stupid world than you and I could have imagined," Hamlet went on in his unbroken stream of consciousness as he paced back past where the other Dane was sitting. 

Horatio only had the time to make a noise in agreement because then something was happening to the room. 

Hamlet's head snapped up, taking in the fact that the walls appeared to be melting, and said shortly, "Can you see that too?"

Horatio was up on his feet and beside the prince in a moment. "I definitely see that too," he answered, wishing he didn't.

"Well," Hamlet said, long suffering, "at least it's not just me," and caught hold of Horatio's wrist before the whole room turned into an odd puddle of shapes and colors then went abruptly black.

It remained dark a moment, but Horatio still felt the tight grip on his wrist, which was vaguely reassuring that he wasn't dreaming or having a near death experience. But he also couldn't tell where they were, or if his eyes were open or shut, or if he even had a body anymore. Someone swore not too far from him and jerked on his arm, so he felt relatively sure Hamlet was still there as well. So they also probably weren’t dead.

Hamlet would be disappointed, although that wasn't a very kind thought.

"Um…" Horatio began vaguely.

"Where the hell are we?" Hamlet snapped, although not at Horatio. That was clear even in his snippy tone. 

Before Horatio could answer, the world seemed to be coming back together around them: a cobblestoned street appeared under their feet, and buildings sprouted up like trees next to them, and people began to appear and talk and walk around just like normal, and at last a big dome of blue-ish sky landed overhead. Both young men blinked up at this new sky, and this strange setting, and tried to find words to say.

Horatio was, for once, genuinely perturbed.

Chapter 3

In other chapters of the poor, confused book, Romeo was blinking around at an odd castle parapet, and Lady Macbeth was definitely not in the correct courtyard anymore. Beatrice found herself in an odd forest, and Puck found himself inside someone’s house. Desdemona looked around an unfamiliar mansion, and Viola walked slowly away from the incorrect beach.

All across the book, characters were wandering confusedly through new towns and settings and being eyed by the usual residents of the plot who waited for this fill-in hero to follow the correct script and keep the story moving toward its correct end.

Unfortunately, they were bound to be disappointed.

Chapter 4

The ghost had been bad enough. Ending up in a completely strange city with only Horatio beside him and no idea how they'd gotten here or even where "here" was definitely pushed what he was willing to accept about the world.

But they were here, clearly, and Hamlet felt a bit of buzzing around his ears telling him where to go and what to do next, which was new for even his mental state. Still, it wasn't like they had a lot of options otherwise.

"Come on," he said, gesturing with his head, and started down the street with Horatio at his heels.

All too quickly, they seemed to stumble upon some sort of bizarre drama. The people milling around were clearly well off to some degree, and also clearly hated the other well off enough people milling around. There was shouting, talking, names thrown around that neither Dane had ever heard, and quite a lot of swearing.

While Hamlet certainly understood the depths of loathing being represented here, what he didn't understand was what the hell was going on.

"Uh," Hamlet said, stepping forward and raising a hand, "where are we?"

Everyone whirled to face him at once. 

"How dare you come back to Verona!" one person snapped, glaring down his long nose. "Murdering one Capulet and being threatened with death by the prince wasn't enough?"

Hamlet glanced back at Horatio, who gave him a wild, confused, and exasperated gesture, before turning back to the angry speaker.

"Uh, I think you've got the wrong person," he replied.

One half of the feuding group glared at him, and the other half stared at him with bewilderment. Neither was helpful.

The nostrils of the previous speaker flared. "You killed Tybalt, and the Capulets will have your head for it, you idiot!"

Hamlet gave a kind of barking laugh, which made Horatio roll his eyes, and said, "I definitely haven't killed anyone!"

"Believe me," Horatio put in, which earned him an elbow to the ribs.

"I don't even know where we are," Hamlet continued, "or who any of you are! So can someone  _ please  _ fill in some gaps before you start accusing me of murder?”

The people in the group exchanged looks.

One of the men in the confused camp shifted from foot to foot and then asked, "So you're not… Romeo Montague?"

"I'm Hamlet actually," the prince replied. 

"Not…" someone else ventured, "a Montague at all?"

"I don't even know what that is," Hamlet answered with a frown.

"But… but…" someone else stammered and then gestured vaguely at the confused Dane. "It’s supposed to be… you’re supposed to be Romeo?"

"I'm  _ Hamlet _ !" said man exclaimed, as if that helped anything. He looked back at Horatio desperately. “Am I not saying it right?”

"Prince of Denmark?" Horatio put in at the lost looks. "Son of the late King Hamlet and Queen Gertrude? Uh, student of Whittenberg?"

Everyone continued to stare blankly, and Hamlet heard the buzzing around his ears more loudly and more clearly.

"Huh," he said, eyes going slightly out of focus. “That’s new.”

“You ok?” Horatio asked, face shifting into one of concern. He reached out as if to put a hand on Hamlet’s shoulder but stopped himself and let it drop back to his side. 

Hamlet found his face, eyes narrowed. "According to this," he motioned vaguely around his head, "I guess I  _ am _ supposed to be this Romeo, and I'm supposed to be heading toward a tomb…"

"What?" Horatio asked. "Why?"

“I guess I’m…” Hamlet listened again, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, “in love with some dead girl?”

The crowd of onlookers began whispering amongst themselves, and Horatio felt his stomach drop but ignored it. Instead, he glared at the group of people all muttering and eyeing Hamlet and kicking their feet at the ground as if waiting to be told what to do next.

“So…” someone from within the group began, which refocused Hamlet’s expression.

“Oh screw you guys,” he snapped and began pushing through them to continue on the track they’d been following thus far, Horatio just a half step behind him now. No one moved to stop them this time.

Horatio made a noise he hoped made sense to the prince, who tipped his face to look at him as they continued their brisk pace and raised an eyebrow. 

Encouraged, Horatio ventured, “So right now we’re following… a voice in your head?”

Hamlet snorted. “I know how it sounds.”

“Do you?” Horatio quickened his pace a bit so they were side by side and caught Hamlet’s arm for just a moment to pull him to a stop. He let his fingers drop immediately. “What if this is some sort of trick? Some weird illusion to drive you insane?”

Hamlet’s brow furrowed again. “Well,” he replied, “we don’t have a lot of other options, do we? Somehow,” he said with a nod at the world around them, “we’ve ended up somewhere called Verona and in the middle of some sort of feud, and apparently I’m supposed to play the part of someone called ‘Romeo’.” He gave a belabored shrug. 

“So, it’s like you’re acting,” Horatio interpreted, “like you somehow got thrown into the wrong play?”

“Well,” Hamlet said with a dry laugh, “the play  _ is  _ the thing, and at this point, it’s the only lead we’ve got to figure out how to get back home. So,” he added, starting to walk again, although he kept pace with Horatio this time, “off we go to a tomb to mourn some dead girl?”

Horatio gave a grunt that might have almost been a laugh and said under his breath, “At least that’s on brand for you.”

To which Hamlet actually did laugh and clap Horatio on the shoulder.

Chapter 5

It was nightfall by the time Hamlet and Horatio got to the tomb, but it was exactly where the weird buzz in Hamlet's ear had led them, so one point there for that insane theory. Or slightly less insane? Horatio was losing track.

Hamlet stopped at the entrance to a specific tomb, the door heavily shut, and the whole space was littered around with bundles of flowers. He stopped and stared at it, being unnervingly silent for someone who usually never stopped talking.

"Well," Horatio asked, "now what?"

Still Hamlet didn't answer as he stood there and watched the tomb door, spine a sharp, straight line. Horatio took a step forward, barely touched two fingers to Hamlet's stiff shoulder, unsure what exactly he planned to say or do to shake him from his concentration, and then a sword was suddenly slapped toward them accompanied with some shouted question. Both men jumped back, and sharply apart, and Hamlet snapped out of whatever revelry he'd been in.

"How dare you come here!" said the person with the sword, who was now moving between the two Danes and the tomb door. The man looked like he was about to say something else biting or argumentative when his eyebrows drew together and instead he asked, in a disgusted voice, "What are you wearing?"

Hamlet gave him a quick up-down with his eyes and responded with equal hostility, "What are  _ you _ wearing?"

Admittedly, both men were right. The poor book, having both the original Shakespeare and the modern translation, had never been able to decide what clothes the characters should wear or what the sets should look like. General scenes--castles, courtyards, forests--it could guess at near enough regardless, and it kept the props--swords, goblets, handkerchiefs--correct and consistent. But when it came to the clothes, well, it compromised by throwing everyone into whatever felt appropriate to them in any given scene, play, or moment.

So at this moment, Paris, who was the man who'd been watching over Juliet's tomb, was dressed in a period-appropriate doublet, jerkin, and hose all in the lush, proper colors and stitching of a man befitting his rank in the Elizabethan era. In contrast, Hamlet was dressed in a slim pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt with a dark grey jacket thrown over the top, as seemed appropriate for a modern young man with a penchant for drama in his mourning garb. Horatio, by some outlier, was in the comfortable but professional trousers and cardigan of a university man sometime around the 1940s. All together, they each looked in their own way both reasonable and wildly out of place.

Hamlet shook off the strangeness first. "Get that sword out of my face," he said, and slapped it away with a palm, which startled Paris out of his own confusion.

"You ass, stand back!" Paris replied, raising the sword and taking a fencing pose. "If you've come to sully the honor of the fair Juliet--"

"I haven't come to  _ sully  _ anything," Hamlet replied, "but I need to get into the 'fair Juliet's tomb for some reason, so if you could just stand aside for a second--"

Paris took a lunge with his rapier at that moment, which Hamlet, with only slightly out of practice ease, managed to side-step. For all that he had been a good student at Whittenberg, he'd been a decent athlete, especially when it came to fencing and grappling. So Horatio wasn't terribly surprised when he managed to get a good twist on Paris' wrist that sent the sword flying and Paris falling to the ground. Admittedly, here the book may have given him a bit of an advantage with the clothing as far as dexterity, but no one mentioned that.

Hamlet knelt to pick up the sword, frowning darkly, but he didn't turn back to Paris. Instead he moved to the tomb again and began working the sword into the door edge to pry it free. Paris shouted something and stumbled back to his feet, but Hamlet had the door cracked open and the rapier, unfortunately, snapped in half before Paris could get close again. The wealthy man was shouting again and looking ready to go for a full-on brawl, so Horatio, with a long-suffering sort of groan, caught hold of one of Paris's arms to stop him as he approached the prince again. This startled Paris into turning to face him and thus meeting the sharp clip of Horatio's other first.

Horatio was a scholar, certainly, but he also wasn't anyone’s bitch.

Howling, Paris stumbled back holding his bleeding nose and finally retreated, shouting that he'd fetch the guard and then they'd both be done for. Horatio watched him go, frowning, and then turned back toward the prince. Hamlet had descended into the tomb and Horatio, worried again, ignored Paris now and followed after. 

It was grey and cold inside the tomb, just a few torches burning on the wall, and Hamlet waited for his eyes to adjust as he stepped deeper within. The buzzing around his ears was getting clearer again. Before long, he found himself beside an altar on which rested a beautiful young woman in a simple white dress. She was, or at least had been, young and pretty with loose, flowing hair that was like a halo around her head. It was weird, actually, looking down at her here because she seemed too rosy and soft to actually be a corpse. 

Without meaning to, Hamlet saw his father in his casket, grey and pale and stiff and not himself, whatever the clothes and the crown were meant to make him believe. It all came back to him again in a slow, aching crawl: his father a posed shell of his former noble self, his uncle's mocking comments about "unmanly grief," his mother's easy dismissal of his pain. Cast off his nighted color indeed. A chill went up his spine that had nothing to do with the stale air of the tomb. His mind warped together the two remaining images of his father, that strange mask of a face posed in death and his ghostly form, still in armor but angry and sad and out of reach, demanding vengeance. 

Hamlet stuffed his hands roughly into the pockets of his jacket, holding back the knot in his throat and the strange, growing throb under his sternum, and stared at Juliet.

The buzzing muttered to him calmly, explained the plot, the choices he ought to take. It wasn't unfamiliar, not really. This plot demanded, apparently, what he'd thought about for the last month or so.

"My lord?"

Hamlet jumped, turning slightly to catch sight of Horatio off to his side. He managed a weak approximation of a smile, a tinge of the ache easing for a moment.

"You know you don't have to call me that," Hamlet muttered, turning back to Juliet's strangely lifelike corpse. He wondered what she’d been like in life, why Romeo had fallen in love with her, why he was willing to do this for her.

Hamlet hadn't bought poison. He'd have to do it another way.

"Well… what do we... do now?" Horatio asked quietly, still mostly in shadow.

Hamlet made a noise that was some awful blend of a laugh and a sob and didn't answer for a long moment. The torches flickered and crackled in their braziers. 

"I'm supposed to kill myself over her body," he answered at last.

Horatio was next to him immediately, both hands wrapped tight around one of his upper arms. "No."

Hamlet made that sad laugh sound again, feeling from far away the warmth in Horatio’s hands. "It's what the voice says, the way their story is supposed to end." He gestured vaguely at the girl again. 

"But you're not him, that Montague," Horatio persisted, shaking his arm. "You can't possibly be considering this, actually ending your own life here! For what? Some other story?"

"What if it's the only way to make things right, get you back home?" Hamlet replied with a loose turn of his head toward his friend.

"No," Horatio said sharply again, color bright at the tops of his cheekbones.

Hamlet shook his head. "It's not the worst thing, the worst choice, really--"

"But there are other choices!" Horatio argued. "Other options. I know…" his voice got quieter, hands inadvertently tightening around Hamlet’s arm, as if that could somehow keep him near, keep his alive, "you've thought about--worried about this before, but--"

"But that's the question, isn't it, Horatio?" Hamlet asked. "To be or not to be?” He blinked over at him, eyes far away. “To keep existing in this stupid, painful world or escape from it." Horatio started to respond, but Hamlet kept going, pulling from the other man's grip to move and sit beside Juliet's body. Horatio let him, watching with bright eyes and prepared to tackle the prince to the ground if he had to. 

But Hamlet just sat, staring off into nowhere. "I could just follow this plot, give in and hope what comes after is better… except, who knows what comes after?" He rubbed his face roughly. "If I'd wake up back in Denmark with you or if I'd wake up burning in hell like my dad." Horatio swallowed hard, while Hamlet looked sadly down at Juliet. "Maybe she could tell us, if she could come back, but no one can. We're just... trapped in a world of pain and unfairness and struggle, too afraid to end it because what if the after… what if it's even worse, Horatio?" His eyes had gone up to his friend now, dark and round and heavy in the gloom. "How can we possibly--"

From behind him, Juliet made a noise and took a deep breath.

Hamlet was up and whirled around so quickly he tripped over his own feet and crashed into Horatio's side.

"What fresh hell is this?" Hamlet yelped.

The dead girl opened her eyes, blinked, and groaned. Then she worked her way slowly to sitting and rubbed her face with both hands. Finally, she turned to look around the tomb and caught sight of the two terrified Danes. She screamed and scrambled back.

"Who are you?" she yelled, ducking behind the burial altar she'd been on. "What's--" she blinked once at Hamlet, getting a bit of that vague look Hamlet had been getting when trying to follow the plot. "You're not Romeo."

"And you're," Hamlet ventured, not moving closer, "not actually dead, apparently."

Juliet straightened slightly from her hiding place and stared at them. "What's going on?"

"You tell us," Hamlet insisted.

The air hung between them a moment, the girl with her wild brown hair curling around her face, the two young men huddled together and staring, and no one spoke.

At last Juliet, face still pinched with confusion, sighed and laid out everything relevant that had happened previously, ending with the potion and the letter to Romeo.

"But instead," she finished, looking between the two Danes, "there are strangers here and no Romeo."

"So it seems," Hamlet replied, straightening a bit. "Somehow, I think Horatio and I ended up in the wrong story, which makes me think your Romeo might have ended up in ours."

Juliet looked between them again. "Ok… then how do I get him back?"

"Great question," Hamlet said, scuffing a hand through his ruffle of dark hair. With the new shock, some of the ache had gone out of him again, and he decided to focus on that. "Anyone have any clever ideas for moving forward?"

"Uh," Horatio replied, looking up, "only that the room's starting to drip again like it did at Elsinore."

The other two mimicked his expression and the tip of his head. 

"Oh hell no," Hamlet replied, and once again caught hold of Horatio's wrist. But this time, he also grabbed Juliet's arm a bit too roughly in his other hand.

"Hey!" she shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

Even as she jerked away, Hamlet kept a grip on her arm and said roughly as the room darkened, “You're coming with us until we figure this out."

Then the tomb, once more, went black.


	2. Part 2 - As Woman's Love

**Part 2** : Hamlet and Horatio, now joined by Juliet, continue to navigate stories and try to get back to Denmark and find Romeo. ( _ Othello _ and very vaguely  _ Twelfth Night _ )

Chapter 6

The three misplaced individuals found themselves in a castle bedroom, all still linked by Hamlet's forceful grip. But once the room had come into being around them, Juliet jerked away and glared.

"What'd you think you're doing dragging me around like this?" she snapped. "I don't even know who you are, and now you've kidnapped me to…" she glanced around, lips drawn down, "somewhere." Her eyes snapped back to Hamlet, who wasn't looking at her. "Well? What'd you have to say for yourself?"

Hamlet finally looked back at her. "What? Oh I don't know, I just figured you might be useful--come on." He stalked forward, shoulders tense, determined to figure out where they'd landed now.

Juliet huffed and glared, not following, so Horatio cleared his throat. 

"Uh," he began to her sharp, angry eyes as they turned his way, "I'm Horatio," he offered, "and that's Prince Hamlet," he added with a nod toward Hamlet as he sculked around the room.

Juliet frowned again and crossed her arms. "Of course he's a prince… stuck-up, self-centered, aggressive little--"

"He's had a tough time recently," Horatio put in quickly. "He's not usually like this."

"What, not a kidnapper?" Juliet scoffed.

Horatio gave her an apologetic look, although he couldn’t exactly disagree. "We're just… it's all gotten very confusing."

Juliet wanted to keep glaring and grunting and arguing with this odd guy in the sweater, but it wasn't really her nature. She felt her expression soften as she looked him over. He was a few years older than her, with short sandy hair and soft eyes and a round jaw, and unlike the angular, crabby prince with his wild dark hair and sharp cheekbones, Horatio actually seemed to feel bad about the situation

"Yeah, well…" she twitched the line of her long, loose skirt around her legs, "maybe it  _ will _ be easier to find Romeo with a little help. That’s what matters." She looked Horatio over again. "And  _ you _ don't seem so bad."

Horatio shrugged in response and watched Hamlet as he poked at the shelves on the walls and opened and closed doors.

"What, exactly, are you doing?" Juliet asked him, the testiness coming back to her voice.

Hamlet looked back at her, briefly confused that she was there at all. "Trying to get some clue where we are now," he offered finally. He made a noise, straightened, and kicked at a door. "It's not Elsinore, and I'm not getting any of the--" he gestured a little frantically around his head, "the voice, the directions, whatever it is--" He moved back to pulling open drawers in a side table.

Juliet leaned a bit closer to Horatio, who leaned in as well.

"Is he ok?" she whispered.

"Um," Horatio replied, "sort of?"

Juliet took a deep breath and might have cursed a little under her breath. 

“It’s a… long story,” Horatio clarified.

Juliet eyed him. Then she moved toward Hamlet, who was now kneeling and looking under the bed.

"Uh, prince?" she asked.

Without glancing up, Hamlet replied. "Just Hamlet's fine." He looked over at her finally, still crouching down. "What’d you want, girl?”

Juliet crossed her arms. “I have a name too, you know.”

Hamlet blinked up at her again. “Oh. So what was your name again?"

"Juliet," she replied, irritation creeping into her voice again, "now would it help if I said I was hearing something about this… wherever we are?" 

Hamlet straightened quickly. “What? Why you?”

“What do you mean, why me?” Juliet asked. 

“Well, it’s just--”

“You can’t fathom that everything wouldn’t be about you?” Juliet asked, frowning again.

Hamlet glowered back. “What’s that supposed to--”

Horatio stepped forward, gesturing between them both before turning to the girl. “Juliet, what are you hearing? What are we supposed to do now?”

Juliet looked over at Horatio and then let her eyes go unfocused as she listened.

“Um, someone named Othello is coming to see… me,” Juliet answered, “or, well, Desdemona, which is who I’m supposed to be, I guess.” She listened again and paled. Her eyes rose to Horatio’s, a bit panicked. “Oh god, I think he’s coming to kill her--me.”

“What is wrong with all these stories?” Hamlet asked. “Why is everyone killing each other, or themselves or--” At Horatio’s narrowed eyes and brief head shake, he broke off.

“Ok,” Horatio said to Juliet instead, keep his tone even and reasonable, “so we obviously can’t let that happen, so what do we do instead?”

“How should I know?” she replied, looking frightened and very young now. “Oh god, what’s gonna happen? I can’t do this! I just wanted to be with my husband and--”

Someone knocked hard on the door, and the three people within froze. 

“You have a husband?” Hamlet hissed.

“Priorities!” Horatio hissed back, nervousness twisting in his gut.

Chapter 7

The door opened and a large, dark man in a suit entered, looking angry, although his expression immediately changed to one of surprise at seeing three people when he’d only expected his wife.

“I knew it!” Othello cried, pointing sharply at Juliet, who took a step back. “You whore! You filthy slut--I expect to find Cassio and instead, these two men--” He made another wild gesture to encompass the two Danes.

“Hey, that’s not--” Hamlet began, but Juliet, recovering herself, actually straightened her back and faced Othello.

“She wasn’t cheating on you--not at all,” she said with much more assurance than a girl of her age should have. “She only wanted to be with you, but your jealousy is going to destroy you both.”

Othello blinked at her once. “What are you--” he wheeled back to Juliet. "No, this is some trick, just another sign of your guilt! How could you--" 

He raised a hand like he'd grab Juliet, who stepped back, eyes wide. So Horatio grabbed whatever he could find on a shelf behind him (which ended up being a vase) and held it like a bat, ready to strike. Othello glared at him, then turned back to Juliet, who had her hands raised.

“She’s innocent!” Juliet said more sharply. “Someone’s lying to you! I don’t know who, exactly, but there’s something--someone’s making you think she’s being unfaithful when she’s not.”

“What do you mean, ‘she’?” Othello persisted, still looking imposing, especially compared to the slight girl in front of him. Now he squinted a bit at her, trying to put together the conflicting pieces of information in his brain. “You’re...”

“She’s not your wife,” Hamlet put in, sounding annoyed.

Othello wheeled on him. “Who do you think--”

Horatio brandished the vase again, just in case.

“I’m not Desdemona!” Juliet said, putting her hands on her hips. “Something got messed up, and now I’m playing a part in the wrong story, and  _ you, _ ” she said with a sharp point at Othello’s broad chest, which surprised everyone, considering how young and slight she was to have such a steely backbone, “are about to kill your innocent wife.” She took a quick, quivering breath, and her eyes looked a bit over-bright as she added, “How could you, when God joined your heart with your wife’s, the way my husband and I were joined?”

That seemed to stop Othello a little, either the near tears of this young woman or the reference to his loving marriage. Neither of the Danes at this point were entirely sure what to think of what was happening, but whatever Juliet was doing appeared to be working so they let it stand. In fact, as Juliet continued to chide Othello in her assured, passionate, idealistic voice, Hamlet side-stepped to get next to Horatio again.

“So,” Hamlet began in a low voice, “what do you think we’re supposed to do from here? Just… let the girl handle it?”

Horatio watched Juliet’s continued speech about love and fidelity and the bonds of marriage and nodded. “She seems to be handling it pretty well, although I definitely feel like we should stay here as backup just in case.” Regardless, he set the vase back on the shelf now that Othello seemed to have calmed a little.

They stood quietly together while Juliet finished her speech, and Othello actually looked a bit ashamed by the time she’d come to a stop.

“I typically don’t appreciate some  _ woman  _ talking to me this way,” he began, and Juliet glared at him again, “but I suppose… what you’re saying makes some sort of sense… Iago--”

Someone else was entering the room now, a somewhat harried looking woman who stopped and stared at the scene in front of her.

“Who are--?” she gasped.

Hamlet talked over her to Juliet. “Now what are we supposed to do?”

She listened again and then wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. I was apparently supposed to die here, so I’m not being told anything else.”

Hamlet groaned and wheeled on Othello. “What about you then? What now?”

The man looked affronted at the sudden questioning and stammered, “Who exactly do you--”

“I’m Prince Hamlet of Denmark, for fuck’s sake,” Hamlet snapped, “and I’d like to return to my accustomed amount of family drama now, if at all possible.”

“You can’t just talk to me like that--” Othello grunted.

“I don’t think I’ll be taking advice from someone who was about to murder his own wife, thanks,” Hamlet replied, bowling him over. “Come on, Horatio, Juliet. If this idiot's not gonna be any help, then let’s get out of here.”

He pushed past Othello and out into the empty hall, walking with the impulsive purposefulness that only someone like him could muster. Still, Horatio and Juliet moved past the bewildered Othello and newly entered woman and followed after him. Juliet paused briefly and lay a hand on Othello's arm.

"Find your wife," she said quietly. "Talk to her. Trust her. Remember why you loved her to begin with."

Othello stammered but wouldn't meet her eyes.

Juliet’s lips thinned, and she left the room, running to catch up with the two Danes down the hall.

“What’s your plan now?” Horatio asked, catching up to the prince.

Hamlet glared ahead. “You think I have a  _ plan _ in all this?”

“We still need to find Romeo,” Juliet reminded, staying at a near jog to keep up with the two considerably taller men. “Now more than ever, if possible.”

“Well, if you’ve got any idea where he is,” Hamlet grunted, “I’m all ears.”

Juliet bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes at him, but chose to say nothing.

Hamlet rounded a corner, unsure where exactly he was heading, or why, or to what end, only to crash into someone else coming the other way. There was an awkward bit of scuffling as everybody righted themselves, before this new man’s eyes lighted on Juliet.

“You!” he growled. “I thought you’d get your just desserts by now, you slut.”

A bright spot of pink came to both of Juliet’s cheeks, and she took a step back toward Horatio. He took a step forward to shield her.

“Ok, I don’t like any of this anymore,” she said quietly, eyes going bright again. “I’m not a--I’m not--”

“I know,” Horatio responded, although he had no idea really, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Hamlet was scowling again, but luckily he didn’t say anything this time as Othello rounded the same corner and suddenly stared hard at the man before him.

“Iago,” he said, voice low. “You told me…”

“The truth!” Iago responded, pointing at Juliet. “Her color betrays it! Women can’t hide their guilt and their lusts, and--”

“No,” Othello said suddenly. “No, that’s not--this has gotten out of hand, and this woman here--”

“Your disloyal wife, you mean!" Iago nearly shouted, jabbing a finger again at Juliet, who shrunk back but kept her mouth in a hard line.

"She's not. She's… I don't know entirely what's going on, but this woman has made me realize I've been tricked and--" 

"A  _ woman _ ," Iago hissed. "You’d trust a  _ woman _ over your most trusted friend and adviser?” He finished with a mocking shock across his face.

“Emelia told me about the handkerchief,” Othello responded, baffling everyone in the area that wasn’t Iago, who blanched but said nothing. “I don’t know why you did this but--”

Iago turned, prepared to flee when he knew he’d been caught, but Hamlet was still there, and in his way, and stopping him with a shove to the chest that sent him reeling back. Othello caught him by a hand on the shoulder and spun him around.

“Iago… what you’ve done...” Othello began, voice sharp and cold as ice.

Then a number of things happened at once, which mostly consisted of Othello calling some friends and guards, Iago being taken away while shouting and arguing, Emelia screaming after him about how he’d almost gotten her involved in a murder, and a lot of other angry, shouted, confusing things that the three others characters stepped aside and let happen.

Juliet was still shaken by strange men calling her a whore with such aggression (and frequency) and so she stayed pretty near to, and slightly behind, Horatio as everything happened around them. Horatio, for his part, didn’t mind keeping track of her as long as he also had an eye on Hamlet, who was getting antsy and looking likely to bolt or start storming around again. But the prince, even as he tapped his feet and shoved his hands in and out of his pockets, was keeping quiet and watching the proceedings with only a slight scowl.

Unfortunately, from what Horatio could tell, still no other lost individuals like them appeared, which meant no Romeo. 

Finally, everything was finished and Othello returned to the bit of hallway where the three strangers were still waiting around, unsure what exactly they were waiting for. He looked chastened, hands tucked behind his back as he approached. Hamlet squared his shoulders and stared at him, while Juliet remained comfortably behind Horatio and glared.

"I, um," Othello said, directing his gaze toward Juliet, "want to thank you for your help."

She nodded at him vaguely, face softening a little.

"Have you seen a guy named Romeo running around here? Or anything labeled "this way to Denmark" or something?" Hamlet asked, fisting his hands in his pockets.

Othello looked over at him in surprise. "Um, no. I… can't say that I have."

Hamlet grunted. 

"Romeo Montague," Juliet offered, "dark hair, blue eyes, a bit shorter than these two?"

Othello shook his head.

"Well, good enough," Hamlet said, and then made a theatrical gesture upwards. "Start melting, walls!"

Othello looked where Hamlet gestured, then looked wildly back at Juliet, who just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Nothing," Hamlet said, dropping his hands. "Well, now what? Juliet, are you staying here then? Can you control this?"

"What? Of course not! And I’m  _ not _ staying here. I'm looking for Romeo, and if the best guess is back in Denmark, then I'm going with you there," she said sternly.

"Not that we know how to get back to Denmark," Horatio supplied.

Othello looked with bewilderment between them again.

"If you're going somewhere," he said slowly, "maybe I should come too and try to find Desdemona."

Both Hamlet and Juliet began saying things at once, but, amazingly, Juliet won out.

"I don't think so," she said, still remembering those voices telling her Othello was coming to kill her, the horrible look in his eye when he'd entered the room. "Besides," she added darkly with a frown at Hamlet, "we already have one person with us who hates women--"

"Hey, I don't  _ hate _ women--" Hamlet protested, but Horatio put a hand on his arm.

"Not the time," he muttered, and then nodded upward. "And it looks like…"

And indeed, the space was blurring again, going hazy at the edges, the walls running like poured paint.

"Off we go," Hamlet grunted, and Horatio squeezed harder on his arm while Juliet grabbed his other hand.

Then they were gone again.

Chapter 8

It should probably be noted that most lost characters were not working their way through multiple stories like these three were. Many of the characters had simply followed the plot along like they should, changing nothing, or only changing things they felt made the story better. The more disagreeable ones had simply sat down and refused to do anything at all regardless of what they were told. Others were still just trying to make their way through the confusing new setting, not even getting close to the plots they were meant to perform in.

It was only the combined stubborn overthinking of Hamlet, loyal rationalism of Horatio, and rebellious passion of Juliet that had somehow set them to fixing plot lines and charging their way through them, consequences be damned.

But in many ways, the book was grateful that at least someone was taking charge of the stories, whether or not they were being put back correctly. What did it know anyway, after all this time? The stories were going and characters were doing things, and that made it happy enough. In return, it was attempting to shuffle the correct characters back to their, sometimes now changed, stories, with varying degrees of success.

Desdemona, for instance, did find herself back in her home and returned to a now very contrite and apologetic husband.

On the other hand, Hamlet, Horatio, and Juliet found themselves in the shallow surf of a beach that was certainly near neither Elsinore or Verona.

Chapter 9

Hamlet was wet, tired, hungry, and irritated. Before they'd even worked their way out of the surf, he'd decided to sit this story out. The distraction, the mystery, the new people and places had helped for a while, but the despair he felt lodged in his bones was crawling back, slowly and steadily like always.

So once he was free of the water, he flopped back into the sand and began stripping off his soaked shoes and socks and glowering at them as if they'd personally offended him. Horatio splashed out after him, shoes and trousers heavy with water, followed by Juliet with her hair tangled around her face by the wind. 

"So… we're stopping?" Horatio asked, looking down at the prince where he sat petulantly in the sand.

"I am at least," Hamlet replied and motioned out at the sky. "I'm pretty sure the last place we were it was the middle of the night and now here it's just before sunset, and I'm fucking exhausted."

Horatio frowned at the use of language in front of someone as young and sweet as Juliet, but she didn't respond to it. Instead, she took a seat off to Hamlet's side and also began taking off his shoes. Horatio, after a moment of watching the mismatched pair of them, the young man in all black and the young girl in soft white, decided to sit down too.

Even being wet and tired, the sunset over the unfamiliar ocean was beautiful. The sky was shaded all over with deepening pinks and purples and oranges that followed the slowly lowering globe of the sun. No one spoke as they watched it set, the tide rhythmically washing in and out as the sky darkened above. Horatio took a moment to look up as the first stars began appearing high above in the dark blue. Juliet followed his gaze a moment and then looked back at the last curve of the sun over the watery horizon.

With the last remaining light, Horatio made a decision and set off in search of any dry wood and kindling available. Realizing what he was doing, the other two broke off and followed suit without discussion, bare feet crunching through the sand. After a few minutes, they had a decent pile of wood, and Horatio set to hollowing out a place, arranging the kindling, and searching in his pockets for matches he was pretty sure he'd had on him when they were still in Elsinore. It took a little while to get it started, and the other two poked at the fire and "helped" as best they could, but eventually they did have a decent fire going. Still no one spoke, just arranging themselves and their sodden shoes around the fire, Juliet nearer Horatio and Hamlet off by himself, back bowed in a familiar sulk Horatio knew well by now.

Finally, Horatio asked, "Anyone getting any direction this time?"

Juliet shook her head, and Hamlet grunted a negative as well. Horatio actually thought he might be getting just a bit of a buzz around his ears, but he chose to ignore it. 

Instead, he watched the way the orange light cast shadows over Hamlet's face as he stared into the fire. The sharp lines of his cheekbones, the fringe of his eyelashes, the bow of his upper lip. It made him look older, much more beaten down than the fellow college student Horatio had met years ago, and just that thought did something to his gut. He looked away, into the fire himself, and then took a deep breath and turned to Juliet.

"So," he began, voice forced toward pleasantness, "how did you and Romeo meet then?"

Juliet’s eyes widened in surprise. "Oh… um…"

Without meaning to, Horatio caught sight of Hamlet from the corner of his eyes, the way his face tipped slightly, eyes moved to Juliet with a vague sort of interest.

"Well," the girl responded, twisting her long hair between her hands, "it's sort of a strange story."

"I'm always open to strange stories," Horatio said with more gusto than he really felt and looked over at the prince. "My lord?"

Hamlet uncurled a little and leaned back into his hands instead. "Sure," he replied, "I'm game to hear what would make a girl fake her own death for some guy."

Juliet stuck out her tongue at him. "He's not just  _ some guy _ \--he's the love of my life."

Hamlet's eyebrows ticked upward, and then Juliet went into the story of rival families, a masked ball, an immediate connection. She talked about Romeo coming to her window later that night, about their willingness to renounce their names to be together. She described wistfully what Romeo was like with her--romantic, passionate, eloquent, beautiful--and how they decided to find a way to be together. As she talked, Horatio once again found his eyes drifting to Hamlet where he sat in the sand, brows and lips quirked at her story, and then forced his face away again. 

"So that's why, of course, I'll do anything to find him," Juliet finished, with a firmness to her voice that made her seem older again. "I have to be sure he knows I'm not dead and still love him." She folded her hands in her lap.

"Hell of a story," Hamlet said with a surprising lack of sarcasm in his voice. "Very romantic."

Juliet actually threw him a surprised smile.

"What about you two, then? Anyone special?" she asked, glancing between them.

Horatio felt something twitch in his stomach, but he just shook his head. 

Hamlet shrugged, looking down at his feet. "I was… sort of seeing someone for a little while but it-- I don't know." He scuffed at the sand with a bare foot. "She was nice but it wasn't really--it was mostly just…" He made a waggling hand gesture and didn't elaborate.

"What happened?" Juliet asked with concern.

Some of the darkness came back to Hamlet's face as he was forced back to reality after the dramatic young love story. 

"A lot happened," he replied, voice coming out lower again. Then he abruptly pulled off his jacket, balled it up, and declared, "I'm gonna get some sleep."

Without waiting for a response, he lay down with the jacket smashed under his head and his back to the fire and his two other companions. He tried to shut his eyes but, when he found that he couldn't, settled instead for staring out at the dark sea and pretending nothing else existed.

Juliet looked over at Horatio in surprise at the abrupt exit to the conversation, and whether or not Hamlet could hear, he figured she deserved an explanation. Still, he kept his voice low.

"His dad died," Horatio supplied, and Juliet's expression abruptly changed, "about a month and a half ago. They were really close--well, he and his mom and his dad, really. But after his dad died, his mom almost immediately married his uncle."

Juliet's mouth opened in surprise, and Horatio just nodded.

“It was… weird, to say the least,” Horatio continued, “but everyone pretended that it wasn’t and just… moved on with their lives. So it kinda seemed like in one fell swoop he lost both parents and was suddenly… very alone," Horatio continued, "so he's not--this isn't usually how he is."

Juliet looked over at the tense, still back of Hamlet and said nothing for a moment.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, "that's…" She rubbed her hands together and then rubbed at her eyes.

"It's not an excuse for him being such an ass," Horatio said quickly, without being able to keep the fondness out of his voice. "But--"

"But it sort of explains it?" Juliet supplied, to which Horatio nodded again.

Juliet, face pensive, ran her palms quickly up and down her upper arms, and without thinking, Horatio undid the buttons of his cardigan and passed it her way. She looked at it in surprise but then wrapped it around herself against the oncoming chill.

"So what he was saying," she ventured, now rubbing her hands over the fabric of the sweater, "when I was waking up, about life and death… he actually…?"

Horatio chewed at a lip as he nodded, looking down at his hands as they knitted together, fingers flexing and looking heavily lined in the firelight.

Hamlet, from where he lay in the sand, felt that pressure around his chest again and tried to close his eyes against it.

"And if all that wasn't enough," Horatio continued slowly, still looking at his hands and not at the tense back of the prince, "his dad's ghost started appearing and then told him he was actually murdered--by his uncle, actually--and the ghost wanted him to kill the new king to avenge him."

"God…" Juliet muttered, hugging the sweater in tighter around her.

"You swore not to tell," grunted Hamlet without turning over.

"Sorry," Horatio replied, coloring a little, "but who's she gonna tell out here on a beach in the middle of nowhere?"

Hamlet shifted in the sand but said nothing, and Horatio rubbed his hands against his knees and stared into the fire.

"So how do you fit into this?" Juliet asked in a low, gentle voice.

Horatio shrugged, unsure what to say, especially if Hamlet was still laying there listening. 

"I…" he began after a moment, "we’re friends, and I try to just be there for him. So he can…" He looked at the sharp, still form of his friend lying in the sand and finished with a slim smile, "So at least he knows he's not really alone in all this."

Juliet looked between them a moment, considering, watching the emotions move across Horatio's kind face.

"You… love him," she said with a note of surprise.

Horatio's stomach turned briefly to a cold stone, but he tried to keep his face and his voice still. 

"Of course I do," he replied evenly, "he's my friend and my prince. For that, he'll always have my love and loyalty."

They both knew that wasn't what Juliet had meant or the whole of Horatio's answer if he was being truthful, but neither said anything. Instead, Juliet found herself casting small, darting looks between the two young men, surprised and intrigued and a little confused, but regardless, considering ways to get them to talk more to each other. Horatio simply stared at the fire, feeling the warmth of it on his face instead of actually thinking about his feelings.

Hamlet, where he still lay facing the sea, felt a knot of the pain under his sternum ease a little, even as he refused to consider the other emotions wobbling their way through his stomach. What he did find was that, after another moment of listening to the ocean waves and thinking about the easing in his chest, he was actually able to close his eyes.


	3. Part 3 - Thoughts Be Bloody or be Nothing Worth

**Part 3** : The misplaced trio continues navigating plays while Hamlet and Horatio also navigate their own relationship. (vaguely  _ Twelfth Night _ and  _ Macbeth _ )

Chapter 10

They woke up the next morning stiff, cold, hungry, and still bedded down in the sand beside the black, faintly smokey remains of the fire. Hamlet woke first, eyes bleary and mouth dry, and looked over at the other two. Juliet was curled up in a little ball with Horatio's sweater over her like a blanket (which brought a kind of warmth to Hamlet's stomach that he chose to ignore), and Horatio was asleep on his back, one arm pillowing his head, looking terribly uncomfortable in his dress shirt and trousers against the sand. 

But they were still here, on the same beach, with no idea what to do. Hamlet ran a hand backwards through his hair, which dumped some sand in his face that he hadn't realized was there, and scowled out at the ocean. His stomach growled.

What exactly were they supposed to do now? 

The others woke up not too long after, in a state of similar discomfort and confusion, but it was eventually decided with only a little bit of arguing that just sitting around on a beach wouldn't do them much good, so they might as well do some investigating. So they pulled on their still slightly damp shoes and trudged up the beach and toward the strip of trees up ahead.

Luckily, the trees only acted as a kind of barrier to a small town behind it, which housed a bustling market and a cluster of houses and a large cathedral. They walked in slowly while Hamlet muttered to Horatio about the moral implications of stealing some food ("Is it less wrong because we don't have other options? Does necessity trump legality? Or is it just as wrong because bad is bad? Don't just sigh at me, Horatio, I'm genuinely asking."), and Juliet wandered off ahead of them. While Hamlet was still staring longingly at a pile of produce at a vendor stall, Juliet navigated her way to the church and ducked within. She'd had good luck with kindly and understanding Friars in the past, after all.

She had similar luck this time.

"Oh you poor dear! Washed up on shore all alone?" the Friar within asked.

"No, actually. With my two fr--brothers," she amended, guessing that might be a little more acceptable than a young woman running around with two strange men. "We haven't had anything to eat in almost a day and--"

The Friar tisked and nodded. "Poor thing. Go and get your brothers and we'll find you all something to eat."

Juliet smiled and curtseyed her thanks, and then headed back into the street.

While the same issue of costuming presented itself here, it was still easy enough to pick Hamlet out of a crowd with his height and all black. Once she was near them again, she told both Danes quickly what she'd said, begged them to play along, and then led them into the church.

The Friar seemed a bit confused at their varied looks (all caucasion, at least, but still sharing almost no actual features in common), but he accepted them, sat them down, and set to fetching food. 

As they ate the basic bread and cheese and fruit with gusto, Juliet pointed a slice of apple at Hamlet and said, "See? No need for moral uncertainty at all."

He allowed himself a rare bit of smile. "Fair enough, though admittedly," he rolled his shoulders and raised an eyebrow, "that's never stopped me before."

Horatio let out a bark of laughter that he quickly turned into a cough. Hamlet shot him a grin.

"This story, wherever we are, doesn't seem so bad," Hamlet admitted, taking another bite of bread. "Maybe we should just stay here."

Juliet shook her head, chewing quickly. "Nuh uh. Unless Romeo's here, I'm not staying."

"And it's not like we can control our coming and going anyway," Horatio put in. 

Hamlet chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. "Yeah I guess. How'd we leave the last places? Like yours," he said with a gesture at Juliet, "why'd we leave when we did, when you woke up?"

Juliet tipped her head to the side. "Well, if you were meant to be Romeo, then I guess we found each other and ran off together. Happy ending?"

Hamlet was shaking his head. "It wasn't. He was gonna kill himself because you were dead."

Juliet choked and coughed. Horatio patted her gently on the back until she could speak again and shot Hamlet a look for his flippant response. Hamlet's eyebrows rose.

"No," Juliet said shortly, looking at him. "He'd never do that!"

"He was distraught," Hamlet said without much concern, "and couldn't imagine living if you were dead--which he thought you were."

Juliet stared at him. "No. We sent messages. He knew to find me."

Hamlet shrugged. "Not from what I heard. He definitely thought you were dead and was ready to off himself."

"He wouldn't!"

"Well, he was gonna."

"Hey," Juliet said sharply, face coloring at how casually he talked about all of this, "just because you wanna kill--" But she broke off at the flash of pain that blinked across Hamlet's face and was gone. "Sorry," she finished, looking down at her plate. "I shouldn't have--that was mean of me."

Hamlet shrugged. "It's not untrue though." He glanced at Horatio, who wasn't sure what his face was doing but hoped it didn't match the twist in his gut. 

Regardless, Hamlet gentled his tone. "But in this case, your Romeo was upset enough to want to join you in death."

Juliet pushed the food around her plate. "Wow." Her expression was inscrutable as everyone took a few more bites and said nothing.

After a moment, Juliet said, voice tight and controlled, "So… maybe it ended because we were… both dead."

The two Danes stared at her.

"You'd…" Hamlet said, face a bit pale.

"To be with Romeo," Juliet replied, raising her eyes again, "yes, I'd do anything."

Horatio and Hamlet exchanged a brief but telling look and then looked away.

"Well…" Hamlet put in after a moment, "then maybe we get to leave when the story ends--or at least the main story.” He gestured with another piece of bread, illustrating. “The hero dies, the lovers get married, the villain is defeated, you know. Like in a play, remember?" Horatio nodded at his gesture. "Curtain falls, comedy or tragedy or neither, and that's it. We get to leave at the curtain."

Horatio took a drink of water and rubbed his forehead. "It makes as much sense as anything else."

"So how do we figure out when the end is here if none of us are part of the story this time?" Juliet asked. At the silence from the other two, she frowned and added, "Well, at least while we're waiting around we should look for Romeo."

Both Danes nodded vaguely, but Hamlet was also looking around the church.

"And if we get stuck here, it's not the worst," he said. "Maybe I'll just become a priest."

Horatio snorted. "You could never."

"Why?" Hamlet said indignantly. "I like books and a nice robe and constant existential uncertainty!"

Juliet laughed. "I think priests are supposed to be certain."

Hamlet propped his chin on his hand. "Oh right."

Horatio grinned at him, some of the worry leaving his stomach again, and they finished eating amid vague and easy conversation.

After that, they set out through the town looking for Romeo. Or, rather, Juliet set out looking for Romeo and the Danes, who couldn't have picked Romeo out of a lineup, simply followed her around. It was a pretty town, full of color and music and people in love, and apparently it was looked after by a noble Duke. None of this really helped the three displaced characters, but at least it made for a pleasant day of walking around. Hamlet continued arguing with Horatio about what job he'd take should they end up staying there (most of which just made Horatio laugh, but that made something bubble up in Hamlet's chest, so it was worth it), and Juliet continued to ask around for her lost husband.

But by evening, they'd learned nothing except that Hamlet would probably make a terrible priest, baker, teacher, farmer, merchant, playwright, or actor. 

" _ Maybe _ an actor " Horatio conceded finally, which made Hamlet laugh. They exchanged a look, blushed a little, and looked away, both choosing to ignore whatever they were feeling.

Juliet ignored them as well and took a deep breath.

"What now?" She looked tired and sad, her face lined and hair hanging in loose, wild waves.

Bells rang loudly from the cathedral far away from them, and they paused to listen to the tolling as the sun just began to dip off to the west. After a moment, the world started to slowly dissolve around them.

“Ah, there is it,” Hamlet announced, but Horatio had a moment of panic realizing how far apart the three of them were.

But Juliet jumped in between them and caught Hamlet by the jacket and Horatio by the cardigan just before the world darkened completely again.

When the world sprouted up around them once more, they were in a cold stone castle decorated with red banners and shining suits of armor, the narrow windows showing the early morning light coming in. Juliet let the two men go and stepped back, rubbing her hands along the front of her dress. Hamlet looked up at the castle, for a brief moment hopeful. But the banners were wrong, the architecture unfamiliar, the air somehow even more frigid and tense than his own messed up home.

“Not Elsinore,” he grunted, tucking his hands in his pockets and looking over at his two companions.

Juliet was simply looking up and around the room with interest, but Horatio was staring forward, somewhat unfocused in expression. After a moment, he met Hamlet’s eyes, his own wide.

His voice cracked slightly, laced with fear. “Um… I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to kill you.”

Chapter 11

Hamlet blinked at him once, sure he must have heard wrong.

“You  _ what _ ?” he asked finally.

“Well, not me-me,” Horatio replied indignantly. “But me as in the person I’m filling in for - MacDuff. He's…" Horatio blanched as he listened again to the explanation buzzing around his ears. "Apparently you--Macbeth," he said with a vague gesture toward Hamlet, "murdered… his wife and--and his kids in cold blood. To retain the throne."

Hamlet's color changed rapidly and then he swallowed hard. The directions had begun to mutter and explain in his ears as well.

"God, I see it too," he murmured, listening to what he was meant to do as Macbeth, what he'd already done based on fear and the prophecies of witches.

Juliet looked between them with concern and confusion and then, at a noise outside, moved to a window.

Hamlet couldn't think straight. It was too close to home. A murder for the throne, a callus sense of determination. His own mind knew this was a lot of Claudius, but he saw shades of himself in it too.

A bloody dagger, a choking fear, a burn of anger.

"Remorseless, treacherous villain," Hamlet muttered to himself, feeling sick, hoping he was talking about Macbeth. "And… I'm meant to die at your hand, I'm assuming." He looked up at Horatio again. "Punished for my crimes."

Horatio nodded tightly.

Hamlet looked at the toes of his shoes. It made sense. Macbeth deserved it, a just end, deserved punishment for his crimes, for making the choices that he did.

But maybe Hamlet did too. 

That thought rising to the surface made him color again, and he brought his eyes back up to Horatio. "And it--the play--whatever's moving us… it picked me for this role. The rogue. The killer." He felt something rising in his throat. "The coward."

"It doesn't mean anything," Horatio said immediately. "It's just random chance. You're a prince, Macbeth's a king - maybe it just went with that connection." He tried to shrug, tried to smile, heart clenching at the anguished look on Hamlet's face. How didn’t know how to reassure him.

"It doesn't say anything about you," he finished solidly. 

"Or it knows me," Hamlet replied darkly, "knows what I'm supposed to do, the sort of blackness I carry around, the sort of king a murderer makes…"

Horatio took a step toward him, wanted to touch him, pull him against his chest in a hug. He held still, just out of arm's reach, hesitating.

Hamlet tugged at his hair, head ducked. "God, I can just see it, hear it, what he did, how much he still just doesn't care, assumes he's safe." He rubbed hard at his head. "I know these thoughts--fear and rage and hate and--and it's… it's all in me… I..." But he trailed off, hands still on his head, covering his face, unable to keep out the way the buzzing story mingled with his own thoughts.

He couldn’t escape it, those thoughts that were so often just under the surface, waiting for the opportunity to emerge, claw at his throat again.

Horatio bit his lip. "It's not--we can't--"

"Um, guys?" Juliet said, looking over her shoulder at them. "There's an army outside, and a king and his guard coming through the gate."

Horatio looked back at her and asked, "So what do we do?" When she didn’t answer, he let his face swing back to Hamlet, eyebrows raised.

The prince's hands had dropped and his expression once revealed was distant, tortured, his eyes unfocused as he listened to what Macbeth had done, what he would still do. It was vivid, too vivid. The thoughts banged around his ears and head, getting all mixed up with ghosts and vengeance and murder.

Forcing down his own nerves, Horatio stepped directly in front of the prince and lay both hands on his shoulders. Hamlet, surprised, raised his eyes, a bit of the darkness clearing.

"Come on, my lord," Horatio said firmly, keeping his thoughts, like his voice, rational and clear. "It's just like the other stories. We don't have to do or be what these people are.  _ We  _ make the decisions. And for all your faults," he added with a crooked smile, "you're certainly not remorseless or uncaring."

Hamlet returned the smile weakly, focusing on his friend's face: the familiar lines, the warmth in his hazel eyes, the expressive tip of his mouth.

"All my faults, huh?" Hamlet repeated, and Horatio smiled more widely.

"Oh, of course," he replied, voice a bit lighter. "You're moody, dramatic, stubborn, overly-moralizing, sarcastic, argumentative--"

Hamlet managed a small laugh. "Ok," he replied. "I get it."

"Good," Horatio said, and clapped him on both shoulders, "then come on. There's a king to explain this all to again, and we'll probably need some of that argumentative stubbornness."

Hamlet managed a breath and nodded, trying to ignore the buzzing around his ears.

"Are you getting anything, Juliet?" Horatio asked as he turned toward the door. "Any directions?"

She hurried to catch up to him. "No, not this time. And you're…?"

"With the army outside, apparently," Horatio answered as they started out into the hallway. "Coming to dethrone Macbeth." He was careful not to motion toward Hamlet, who was following behind, still looking looser and slower in stride than his traditional gate. "So," Horatio went on, "with as bad as it sounds like Macbeth was as a king, I say we explain the situation to the army outside and just let them take over without any conflict."

Juliet nodded, still looking a bit nervous, but from behind them, Hamlet made a loud clanking noise as he pulled a sword from a suit of armor. Horatio spun around.

"What are you doing?"

Hamlet hefted the sword in his hand and looked down its edge. "A bit chunkier than our usual fencing swords, but I figured we might want some protection in case this new king isn't feeling benevolent."

Horatio frowned. "Or you'll come in swinging around a sword and he'll assume we're his enemies."

"I won't be swinging it around," Hamlet argued while immediately undermining his argument with a great deal of swinging the sword around. 

Horatio sighed and pinched the space between his eyebrows. "Fine." He moved to the next suit of armor and grabbed a sword for himself, holding it loosely out in front of him before looking to Juliet. "Do you want one too?"

She stared at him. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Fair enough," Hamlet responded in Horatio's stead, feeling a little more in control with something sturdy in his hand. "Come on."

They navigated their way through the ancient castle, footfalls echoing on the stone floors, and attempting to follow the sound of the army outside at the gate. It took a few missed turns, some backtracking, and some bickering about which turns to take, but eventually they found themselves stepping into a large, open courtyard in which a king and a collection of his guard waited. They were all in heavy, silver armor, the king only distinguished by his long purple cape and crown. At their approach, he shouted to his men, and the air rang with the sound of unsheathing swords. The king himself pointed his sword straight out at them.

The three strangers put their hands up, even with the swords in Hamlet's and Horatio's hands, but kept up their approach.

"Macbeth!" the king shouted. "Stand down."

"I am!" Hamlet shouted back. "And I'm not Macbeth!"

The king stared at him, sword still pointed forward. But the tip dipped a fraction. "You do look different than I remember."

"I'm not him," Hamlet said, forcing himself to believe it as well. "I just ended up playing this part, apparently."

That brought a pang back to his chest, but he ignored it.

The king hesitated a moment, looking at the mismatched trio before him, and then frowned. "I don't care about what trickery this is--you're still Macbeth and you'll pay for your crimes! Macduff, take your revenge!"

This last bit was directed to Horatio, who startled at the shout.

"What? No, I'm not going to," he replied, frowning. "Your majesty, there really is a mistake and I'm not going to attack him. Just let us explain--"

"Treachery!" the king yelled, voice ringing against the walls. "If you betray me Macduff, you will earn the same fate as Macbeth and I'll have you both executed for your crimes."

The guards took a step forward. Their swords flashed in the morning light. Their faces were cold and focused on their helms.

The trio took a step back.

"Do we run?" Juliet asked, voice high.

"To where?" Horatio replied.

"Anywhere," Hamlet said in a low voice, "Juliet, just get clear, and Horatio?" He eyed him with a slight uptick to his mouth. "Remember how you said I might make a good actor?"

"Yeah?" Horatio asked warily, looking his way. He didn’t like that expression on the prince’s face.

"Well, we might need to test that now--just play along." Hamlet took a large step to the side and swung his sword to point at Horatio. "You fool! I've deceived you and now you die!"

His voice was overly loud and enunciated, but he raised his eyebrows as Horatio stared at him in confusion. Juliet, who just didn't like the idea of swords swinging around her regardless of any sort of plan, fled back toward the doorway. Horatio, watching Hamlet's expression, actually smiled as he caught on. But he quickly schooled his expression.

"Villain!" he cried, turning to stand sword to sword with Hamlet, but then he couldn't think of anything else to say.

It seemed to be enough, and the guards stopped advancing.

Hamlet fell into a fencing stance and made a careful swing at Horatio's side. It had been quite a while since Horatio had done any fencing, but he managed to block the blow and step back. But the sword was heavy and awkward in his hand, and it went a bit off course as it headed back toward Hamlet. The prince stepped forward, sword raised, and kept their swords locked near enough they could speak while looking as if they were in a scuffle for ground.

"You ok?" Hamlet hissed.

"Not really," Horatio muttered, "I'm too out of practice and these swords are too heavy."

Hamlet guided their swords into a swing that rang through the courtyard but brought them back shoulder to shoulder. 

"Just follow me," Hamlet whispered. "A few strikes, some noise, grunting like we're trying hard, and then I'll let you disarm me." 

He pushed off and away, and Horatio took a swing back toward him, a little more controlled this time. Hamlet side-stepped it, cutting closer than Horatio would have liked, and let his own sword sweep to meet the other.

"You can't beat me!" Hamlet announced in his over-loud acting voice. "No--uh, no man born of woman can defeat me!"

"What?" Horatio asked, moving just in time to block another strike. But the directions were buzzing again, and he almost laughed at how absurdly they were acting this. 

Luckily, the king and guards seemed to be buying the performance. Really, they had no reason not to, which the two Danes banked on. 

With another sharp clang of his sword, Horatio shouted, "But I was not born of woman! I was taken early from my mother's womb and so--" He broke off as he stepped away, finding it difficult to keep track of the fight and what he was meant to be saying.

Hamlet picked it up regardless. "Oh no!" he yelled. "The horror! That scares me!"

Horatio mouthed 'that scares me?' back at Hamlet while he found it difficult not to keep his face in control. The prince pinched his lips together and raised his sword again, holding it rather loosely. Horatio mimicked him, following his steps, but Hamlet shook his head and mouthed 'disarm me'. He took another wide sweep, giving Horatio a bit of time, and the other man moved to catch the blade and pull it from his grasp. Hamlet gasped in mock surprise and took a step back.

"Oh no!" he said again, raising his hands, "I was deceived by the witches and now my defeat is upon me!"

"Will you surrender?" Horatio asked, advancing, and Hamlet went to his knees in front of him.

"Um, I shouldn't," Hamlet said, "because apparently I'm a proud, stupid, bastard, but, uh, yeah I think I will surrender to you." He put up his hands. "That seems a lot less idiotic, really."

Horatio stood with his sword pointed toward Hamlet's chest and listened to the words buzz at his ears: that he was meant to decapitate this tyrant king, win the day for King Malcom. Destroy the evil that had killed his family, this man who had taken so much and hurt so many. He shook his head, sword tip wavering. Logically, he knew it wasn’t real. He wasn’t Macduff, and Hamlet wasn’t Macbeth. But the noise of it, the directions, the images, were hard to shake completely.

"Take your revenge, Macduff!" the king yelled from off to their side. "The traitor is defeated!"

Horatio blinked, tried to focus his thoughts. Hamlet stared up at him, a little confusion in his face but not a bit of worry, even with the point of Horatio's sword so near his throat. He watched him, waiting for some sign, hands raised and vulnerable chest and neck bared. In what could be very real danger, and yet calm, trusting his friend.

For all his faults indeed, Hamlet still wasn’t a man like Macbeth.

"No," Horatio replied to the king, although he didn't move his eyes from Hamlet's face, "maybe revenge isn't always the right plan, even in the face of terrible evil and pain. Maybe we can be… better than that."

Hamlet looked up at him with his dark eyes and through his dark lashes, face looking for a moment as vulnerable as his throat. Yet he stayed put, staring up at him. Horatio's heart thumped in his chest again as he let his sword point lower to the ground. He couldn't seem to break his gaze, his sweet prince kneeling at his feet, trusting him completely. It was too much to try to bear, but he opened his mouth to speak again, keep this plot moving.

Horatio cleared his throat. "The castle is won and Macbeth is defeated," he announced loudly, still watching Hamlet. "It's over."

There was a beat of silence.

"Hail, King of Scotland," one guardsman shouted, and then the others were echoing him, repeating the cry over and over as Malcom started toward the doorway.

Horatio moved to stand between the new king and the kneeling prince, just in case, but Malcolm swept past them now with little more than a look. Juliet ducked back out into the courtyard and out of the way of the guards, and once they were all through, the three strangers were left once more with only the echo of the king and his army. And the slight panting of the two Danes.

"That was," Juliet said as Horatio helped Hamlet back to his feet, "some really terrible acting."

Horatio let out a breath he'd apparently been holding and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Then he allowed himself a smile.

"Well, it was good enough," he said, tossing the sword to the ground. "No one got decapitated and that's what I'm most concerned with. 

Hamlet dusted off his knees and then straightened. He gave Horatio a fond look that did something to the other man’s chest. "I didn't think we were so bad."

"Truly terrible," Juliet said with a smile, "although the sword fight wasn't awful."

Horatio took a deep breath, far more tired than he’d realized. He was ready to be home, to be only himself again. He glanced over at Hamlet again.

"Denmark doesn't seem so bad now, does it, my lord?"

Hamlet huffed, scuffing hands through his hair. "Maybe not. At least it's semi-functional right now, compared to whatever this disaster is." 

He still felt jittery though, remembering that brief moment when Horatio's sword had been so near his throat, his eyes briefly intense. It had been strange to see his friend that way, to be on his knees in front of him, unable to do anything if Horatio had actually decided to stab him, punish him for his crimes. But he'd never actually been in danger, had never had to worry that Horatio would actually hurt him. Regardless of place and situation, he knew that without question. Horatio's goodness and loyalty was one of very few things he didn't question. 

Maybe the only thing.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

"And we're off again," Juliet said tiredly, gesturing up at the courtyard walls turning to running paint. She grabbed Horatio's cardigan to keep them connected.

Without thinking, Hamlet took Horatio’s hand and squeezed as the world went dark again.


	4. Part 4 - A Divinity that Shapes Our Ends

**Part 4** : The trio finds themselves in a tense situation that relies on Juliet’s quick thinking but ultimately leads to some much-needed conversation. ( _ The Merchant of Venice _ )

Chapter 12

Both young men stood stock straight in the dark, hands clenched together, both afraid to move or breathe or look near the other. But as soon as the world began to lighten and reform around them again, they quickly separated. Neither knew who dropped whose hand first.

The world they appeared in was busy and bustling, people coming and going around the large courthouse they'd ended up near. Hamlet squinted up at it, and Horatio resolutely didn't look at Hamlet. Luckily, the book didn't actually offer them time to think about being awkward with each other.

Someone grabbed Juliet. 

"You're late!" a young man said, except that his voice was definitely too high to be a man's. "And you're not in disguise at all! What have you been doing--the trial's waiting on you!"

Juliet stared at the woman-dressed-as-a-man with wide eyes, and then looked quickly over to Hamlet and Horatio for confirmation. Hamlet was relieved to find that he wasn't hearing a damn thing around his ears, but Horatio listened as the directions muttered quickly to him. Thank god this time he didn't have to kill anyone, or do much of anything, except cheer on some guy on trial and Portia as she acted as the judge. Except Portia was Juliet, and Juliet would be dressed as a young male lawyer, and somehow this was all supposed to save a man named Antonio from a man named Shylock who was trying to take a pound of his flesh.

Good god. A lot to be dropped into.

"Come on," the woman--Nerissa and apparently Horatio's wife, or Gratiano's wife since it was all getting weirder and more confusing--said and dragged Juliet around a corner. The two Dane followed. "Hurry," Nerissa continued, producing some clothes and shoving them into Juliet's arms, "change back there and let's good--and you," she continued, whirling on Horatio, "you're not supposed to be out here and you're…" she blinked at him, "you're not my husband are you?"

"Um, no," Horatio said, "sorry. Everything's gotten… mixed up. So I'm Horatio, not Gratiano, and, unfortunately, that's not actually Portia back there."

Nerissa looked to where Juliet was quickly changing clothes behind a divider and swore. "Oh no. Antonio's doomed…"

"What's going on?" Hamlet asked finally, looking at all of them in confusion. "Who's Antonio? Where are we?"

"There's no time," Nerissa said sharply as Juliet came out from behind the divider dressed in a heavy black robe and with a curly white wig over her pulled back and tucked away hair. 

She looked petrified, but looked to Nerissa for some sort of guidance.

"Good enough--at least there's no chance anyone will recognize you," Nerrisa said, "now come on, all of you I guess. And not-Portia?"

"Juliet," the girl supplied.

Nerissa nodded. "You're gonna have to do some quick thinking here." Then she stormed through the main courthouse doors, leaving Juliet and the Danes standing behind.

Juliet sent them a terrified look. "What am I supposed to do with this? I barely know what's going on!"

"Uh, listen to the directions?" Horatio offered, feeling bad but also happy to push away his own feelings and concerns. "Just follow whatever this Portia was gonna do?"

"Unless it's stupid or horrible," Hamlet added, equally glad for a distraction. "Then just make it up as you go."

Juliet glared at him, but Hamlet just shrugged.

"Oh you'll be fine," he added. "You're clearly clever and well-spoken enough to make it through whatever this is."

Juliet's expression changed to one of pleasant surprise. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Hey!" Hamlet protested. "I'm always a nice person--well, unless someone pisses me off, or seems really stupid, or--"

"Ok," Horatio said, and gestured forward, "I think Nerissa's calling for you to come in. We’ll grab seats just behind you and help however we can."

What help would look like, though, he had no idea.

With a quick swallow, Juliet nodded and then headed in, trailed by the pair of Danes. The courthouse itself had lofty, arched ceilings and rows of wooden seats stretching up toward the front where a cluster of people waited, seated and standing around the raised platform of the judge. Juliet walked up to the judge and the curious onlookers, keeping her back straight and her face controlled, and Hamlet and Horatio slid into seats in the front row just behind her.

“Ah,” said the judge, gesturing toward her, “this must be the young legal professor. Did Bellario send you?”

Juliet opened and closed her mouth once and then said quickly, pitching her voice lower, “Yes sir.”

“Good. Are you familiar with the case, then?” the judge asked.

“Um, yes, of course I am,” Juliet answered, not feeling sure at all, and then looked over at the men standing tensely near the front. “So… which one is the merchant and which one is the jew?”

The judge gave her a curious expression, but he called for the two men to come forward. Admittedly, they weren’t all that different looking as far as clothing and body type; the one nearer her looked a bit older and more severe, but mostly they just differed in expressions. The one looked stern and smug, and the other looked pale and terrified.

“Right,” Juliet said, looking between them and settling on the one nearest her. “So, Shylock, right?”

“That’s my name,” the smug man said.

“And you… have a claim on this man? He has a claim on you?” Juliet asked, looking over at the other.

The terrified man simply nodded, face drawn. Another man hovered at his shoulder and looked like he was about to move in and touch him at any moment. Juliet found herself reminded of Horatio and Hamlet for some reason and glanced back to where the two Danes sat watching her. Horatio gave her a quick, reassuring smile.

Juliet turned back to the court case, pulling her voice lower again.

“Well, it’s a strange case for sure,” she said, folding her hands behind her back. Only the Danes could have noticed the way she twitched her fingers tightly together with nerves. “Such an extreme price for an unfortunate situation. It just… seems like Shylock ought to show some mercy.”

The smug man frowned while the judge simply sighed. Juliet glanced at him, worried she'd made a mistake, but he just sorrowfully shook his head at her.

“Why should I?” Shylock sneered, explaining the judge's expression. “I have a clear contact, so why should I have to give up my claim? Why should  _ I  _ be asked to show mercy?”

“Well…” Juliet said, squeezing her hands again and trying desperately to think of something, “because… because mercy is the right choice here. It should just happen, as natural as rain. No one is ever forced to show it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the most valuable thing there is.” Her voice grew firmer as she continued. “It’s the greatest gift imaginable, only given by the strongest, the most just, the most valiant…”

She continued in a ringing voice, and Hamlet leaned toward Horatio. 

“It seems like she’s doing pretty good,” the prince whispered, watching Juliet orate in that not-quite-male sounding voice. Just like their swordfight, no one seemed inclined to question her deception.

“So far so good,” Horatio replied. “Maybe she can save Antonio’s life just with this.”

“Wait, that guy’s  _ life _ is at stake? Why?” Hamlet muttered back.

Horatio explained in a low voice what was going on to Hamlet's shocked and indignant expression, as Juliet finished her speech and turned back to Shylock. 

The man frowned, expression dark.

“No,” he snapped. “I don’t care--I’ll have what I’m owed, and damn the consequences.”

Juliet paled and swallowed but she kept her expression steely as she listened to the buzzing around her ear. It was a lot to take in, too many names and comments, but she sorted through it well enough to reply, “Fine. Why can’t he just pay you back the money then?”

“I’ve offered!” the hovering man just behind Antonio shouted. “To pay it back and even more but that--that  _ bastard _ refuses!” He turned to the judge and continued his shouting. “Come on, Duke. Just throw the contract out! You could do that!”

Antonio lay a hand on his friend's arm, and Bassanio quieted, looking back at him. He reached to cover his friend's hand with his own.

“He can’t,” Juliet replied, hesitating. She didn’t like what the directions were explaining, didn’t like how this was going, what she was supposed to be saying. But she didn’t know how to change it, make it better. She bit her lip and then let it go before stating, “The law is the law and… well, if one thing gets thrown out, then who knows what other terrible legal decisions would start to be allowed?”

“See!” Shylock snapped, pointing sharply at her. “Here’s a lawyer who knows what he’s talking about. Finally, someone with half a brain and a sense of justice.”

Bassanio, the friend behind Antonio, glared and looked about to start shouting again, but Antonio squeezed their still joined hands. The friend stayed quiet.

Juliet bit at the insides of her cheeks. “Let me see the contract.”

It was handed over, and she took a moment to read through it while the people muttered around her. A few people coughed from where they watched, and Bassanio and Antonio exchanged another tense glance, and Shylock continued to glare around him like he owned everyone in the room.

Hamlet and Horatio exchanged a glance from their own seats.

“There’s got to be a way out of this, right?” Hamlet asked, voice low as he watched. “We’re not gonna just sit here and watch some guy get his heart cut out, are we?”

Horatio blanched. “I mean… there has to be a way, doesn't there? We managed to stop Macbeth from getting decapitated and Othello’s wife from getting murdered.”

Hamlet muttered something to himself while the people in the courtroom argued, Juliet trying to keep her voice under control as she admitted that she couldn’t see a way out of the contract. There was a lot of shouting them, and argument, and Shylock yelling things triumphantly, and Juliet squeezing her hands tightly behind her back again and trying not to cry. But at last, there wasn’t anything else to be done except see the contract through. 

Antonio’s chest was bared and prepared for the knife, his face now resigned. He took his friend's hand, speaking to him too quietly for anyone else to hear, as the judge rubbed his face and the moneylender grinned and hefted his knife. The other people in the seats muttered to themselves as Shylock took a step forward. Antonio shut his eyes. Juliet bit hard at her cheeks again and tried to think.

“Oh come on!” Hamlet barked from the seats, drawing their attention, even as Horatio tried to shush him. “Isn’t there at least a doctor on hand? You’re just gonna let him bleed to death?”

The judge said something about keeping order, and Shylock frowned at the stranger in the stands, who glared back in his trademark unflinching and pigheaded way. But Juliet felt something click in her mind as she looked back at Hamlet and then down at the contract in her hand. Shylock and Antonio’s friend and a few other people around them argued and put in their opinions, but she stayed quiet, reading, considering, feeling a blossom of hope in her chest. At last, Juliet’s face cleared with realization, but she suppressed her smile as she looked back up at Shylock and Antonio. 

“This… strange man,” she said shortly, motioning back at Hamlet, who’d quieted but continued to glare “is right. There should be a doctor on hand.”

“It’s not in the contract,” Shylock said with a cold smile, “so why should I?”

“Ah,” Juliet said, taking a step forward. “You’re right of course. But you’ll also notice, there’s nothing at all about blood in the contract either.”

Shylock blinked at her but then waved her off. “That doesn’t matter. It’s--”

“No, no,” Juliet said sharply. “Your contract is for a pound of flesh, exactly a pound of flesh and nothing more. So, we’ll need to have scales prepared to make sure you’re taking  _ exactly _ a pound of flesh, otherwise, you’re in breach of your own contract.”

Shylock stared at her.

From the seats, Horatio heard the buzzing around his ears and yelled, “Now that  _ is  _ a good lawyer right there.”

Hamlet snorted at him, and Horatio shrugged in response.

“That can’t…” Shylock began, but Juliet raised her voice again.

“And, if you take even a drop of blood from this man as you extract your pound of flesh, you’ll be tried by Venician law.” She couldn’t quite keep the pride out of her own voice as she said it, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That can’t be the law!” Shylock protested.

Antonio’s friend was clinging tight to him, face beginning to understand.

“See for yourself,” Juliet responded tartly, shaking the contract at him. “You wanted justice--refused to take more than fair pay--so now you’ll have that justice.”

The friend was squeezing to Antonio more tightly, face breaking into a smile. The judge was watching the proceedings with a certain satisfaction.

“Fine,” Shylock said quickly. “Then I’ll just take the money.”

“Oh no,” Juliet said immediately with some of that determination that had made her willing to stand up to her parents and tradition itself. “That time’s past. You wanted your justice and your pound of flesh, so now you’ll take the penalty.”

“Yeah!” Horatio yelled from behind her. “That’s it! Give it to him, Jul--lawyer!”

“Nice save,” Hamlet muttered, suppressing a smile.

“So take your flesh,” Juliet said, gesturing to where Antonio still waited, looking between her and Shylock with confusion. “Take your penalty of  _ exactly  _ a pound and without a drop of blood.” She glared at the other man, who was looking more nervous by the second. “You refused to give mercy, so go ahead.”

“Just let me take the money back,” Shylock replied.

“No,” Juliet said shortly, anger coming into her voice. She was tired of people trying to manipulate, to hurt others, to desire hatred over kindness. She glared at Shylock. “Take your penalty or accept your punishment.”

Shylock colored. “Punishment?”

Juliet stood still a moment, listening as the story gave her a quick lesson on the laws of Venice. Then she shifted to take a firmer stance and explained the rules of Venice and how exactly it felt about people trying to kill Venitian citizens, tricky contracts or not. Shylock continued to change colors as the fear rose in his face. He gaped at her, and then up at the judge.

“So I leave it to you, Duke,” Juliet said in that same firm voice, “to decide how exactly Shylock’s wealth will be distributed to make up for his bloodlust. Any other penalties I leave to your discretion.” 

Then she turned, knees only wobbling slightly with nerves, and started back down the long walkway as the Duke began to make his decree much to the joy (or chagrin) of the onlookers. Hamlet and Horatio got up and followed quickly and quietly behind her.

Chapter 13

Once they were all outside, Juliet could finally put her hands on her pounding heart and take a deep, shaky breath. The two Danes came up to her quickly, both faces split with wide smiles.

“That was incredible!” Horatio said immediately. “How did you manage that?”

“Well,” Juliet said, pulling the wig off her head and squeezing it between her hands. “It was a lot of listening to the directions and then just… improvising. And for once,” she added with a quick laugh, “Hamlet’s inability to not give his opinion actually helped.”

The prince made a face at her without much passion behind it, and Juliet just laughed.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” she finished, pulling at the side of the black robe, "because I'm ready to be out of this." 

So Hamlet and Horatio were left alone while she ducked back behind the divider to change, and for a moment, they stood in awkward silence. Hamlet tucked his hands back into his pockets and looked out at the city, chewing at his lower lip.

"So… about what happened in Scotland," he began, still avoiding Horatio's gaze.

"Oh," the other man responded, rocking back on his heels, "it's fine. Nothing to talk about."

Hamlet nodded to himself and looked down at the ground.

Juliet emerged a moment later looking more like herself, although she noticed immediately the awkwardness between the two Danes who were looking anywhere but at each other. She was about to say something when the courthouse doors opened again and Nerissa emerged, face smiling wickedly.

"Men are idiots," she said with a grin at Juliet. "Your fool of a husband just gave up the ring you gave him, so we can definitely get him into a nice little prank now."

"My husband?" Juliet said sharply. "Romeo? He's here? How--"

"What?" Nerissa asked, forehead wrinkling. "I meant Bassanio--who I guess would be Portia's husband, not yours." Her eyebrows pulled together. "Who's Romeo?"

Juliet deflated. "Nevermind. It's… nothing."

Nerissa looked around the group of them, all in varying shades of discomfort and disappointment.

"So… what are you all doing now?" she asked. She looked to Juliet again as she finished.

"We don't know," Juliet replied. "We just… end up places."

Nerissa looked at them with a bit of confusion, but after a moment, she just nodded.

"Well," Nerissa said, "if you're meant to be Portia and Gratiano, you might as well come back to Belmont to celebrate with us. I've got a carriage down the street."

Without any idea what else to do or where else to go in this plot line, they agreed and settled into the carriage heading back toward the country estate.

As they rode, Nerissa told them some about Portia’s manor, about how she’d manage to invade foolish suitors, how she’d ended up with Bassanio. After that, she and Juliet talked animatedly about their husbands and the trial and what would happen to Shylock now. The two Danes remained uncharacteristically (at least in Hamlet’s case) quiet as they listened, nodding along and offering comments when it seemed appropriate, but otherwise simply feeling the bumps in the road and looking out the windows. After almost an hour, both Juliet and Nerissa decided to settle in and try to nap, and before too long, the two women were snoozing quietly on the bench across from the two Danes, who were still not quite looking at each other.

The silence in the carriage, broken only by the wheels rattling over rocks and uneven patches of road, hung awkwardly between them.

Hamlet cleared his throat. “You really are the best of all men, Horatio,” he offered quietly.

The other man shifted in his seat, flashing a glance across at the sleeping women on the other cushion across the way. “Oh, my lord, you don’t need to--” he stuttered.

Hamlet waved his hand. “I’m not--I’m not just trying to flatter you.” He finally tipped his head to meet the other’s eyes. “Why would I? What good would that do right now? But what you did in Scotland, being able to be reasonable and logical and calm when I was…” He gestured vaguely to himself before finding Horatio’s eyes again. “You’re always like that, always able to resist being jerked around by emotions. I just--if I could…” He shook his head. “I’m talking too much and not making any sense.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “God, I’m tired.”

“It’s ok,” Horatio said quietly. “I…well, thank you, I guess.”

“Thank you,” Hamlet insisted. “You’re always the one that keeps me from being an idiot.”

Horatio grunted, allowing himself a bit of a smile. “Well, I’m not sure I can really say that.”

“Well, as often as you  _ can  _ keep me from being an idiot,” Hamlet conceded with a similar smile. “I know it’s been a lot recently but…” He rubbed his hands across his thighs, wanting to do something stupid: scoot closer to the other man, take his hand again, do something more desperate. Instead, he just dug his nails into his own jeans. That was reasonable, right? He looked over at him again, a lump in his throat.

“I guess I just feel lucky to have you,” he finished, voice cracking a little.

Horatio blushed slightly and kept his own hands pinned in his lap. “Well, I’m… lucky to have you too, you know.”

Hamlet snorted. “I don’t know about that.” He sat back, shoving his shoulder blades into the seat. “I’m a damn disaster.”

The look of him, those dark clothes and the narrow lines of his body, the sharp cuts of his face, the messy tussle of hair, it all did something strange to Horatio’s heart. Familiar and attractive and distinctly the prince. Even for all the weirdness, there was more of the old Hamlet in these other stories: less burdened, more himself.

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re my--” Horatio began, before quickly choking off the words. He coughed to cover it and fiddled with the ends of his sleeves. “Maybe you’re not always completely a disaster.”

Hamlet chuckled. “Yeah. I haven’t messed any of these other stories up too much, huh?”

Glad of the change of subject, Horatio replied, “Actually, maybe we’ve made some of them better--lots of them better. Who knows what would have happened to some of these people. Antonio there, and Desdemona--”

“That was all Juliet,” Hamlet said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Sure,” Horatio agreed with a shrug, “but Juliet was only there for any of this because of you, because you didn’t…” He swallowed and looked up at the ceiling.

The air hung still for a long moment.

“Because I didn’t kill myself,” Hamlet supplied, voice strangely calm.

“Yeah,” Horatio said, looking over at him. “That.”

Hamlet nodded, rubbing his hands over his thighs again.

“Did you ever decide?” Horatio ventured, trying to keep his voice light. “To be or not to be?”

Hamlet let out a sad laugh, lips tipping up slightly unevenly, and that too did something to Horatio that almost made him bold and reckless.

“I…” Hamlet began, finding his eyes. There was a vulnerability in the darkness there again, an openness the prince rarely showed. 

Horatio waited while Hamlet warred with himself, with finding words. 

“I carry,” Hamlet said finally, “around this weird… pain. Just. All the time. It just…” He pushed on his sternum, massaged at it. “It just sits here, all the time to some degree, just… aching. And it... “ he shook his head, “creeps up into my brain, kinda like the way the directions whisper things to us, except it just tells me the pain’s never gonna go away, never gonna get better, that I’ll always…” He shook his head again, a slow emphatic motion. “That I can’t be normal, be happy, be ok. That I’ll just… hurt. Forever.”

Without thinking, Horatio reached out and took Hamlet’s free hand. The urge to comfort, to support, to be there overrode any hesitation. 

They both looked down at their joined hands in surprise for a moment, but neither pulled away. There were a tense few seconds as they stared at those joined hands, felt the heat of the other’s palm, the lines in the skin, the muscles and tendons and thump of a heartbeat. As if pulled by a string, they looked up to find the other’s eyes.

“And yet…” Hamlet finished slowly, heart in his throat, “that pain never seems as strong or as loud… when I’m around you, when you’re near me. You’re…” He briefly ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, feeling something entirely unlike pain in his chest, and then swallowed. “You’re someone really… important to me.”

Horatio couldn’t look away, wasn’t sure he was breathing, thought his heart was probably audible through the whole carriage. Said carriage rumbled over an uneven patch of road, jostling the two men, and instead of separate hands, they squeezed, clinging together.

“I…” Horatio managed, “I hope you know that I… that you’re… really important to me too.”

It seemed such a pitiful understatement Horatio almost laughed, but Hamlet’s face had gone warm and a tinge red, and then he was leaning in, just a little, ever so tentatively. Horatio took a breath, watched his face, leaned to meet him--

The carriage driver shouted that they were to the gates of Belmont, and the two women who had been sleeping suddenly grunted and shifted and began to open their eyes.

The Danes were apart before they even realized it, hands each tucked tightly into their own laps and faces stiffly forward. Juliet blinked a few times as she woke up and looked between the two men in confusion, unsure why exactly they both looked flustered and nervous and terrified and excited all at once. But she decided to ignore it as the carriage driver shouted something else, and Nerissa pulled back the window covering and looked out.

“Good to be back home,” she said with a smile over at the three strangers, which the Danes managed to return with varying degrees of sincerity. “I’m sure you all might be wanting to freshen up? Maybe eat some dinner?”

That at least did sound appealing, and as the carriage rumbled to a stop and the passengers finally stepped out, Hamlet and Horatio sent each other only the briefest look, something furtive but promising, before walking inside.

Chapter 14

It did feel good to have showers, and to change clothes, and to have the opportunity for a full meal, even if it was in someone else’s house and someone else’s clothes and someone else’s shower. It had been a bit awkward hunting for clothes, since this particular story had decided on modern garb with a smattering of 16 and 1700s attire mixed in throughout, and the sizes were somewhat limited to the inhabitants of Belmont. Juliet, being not all that different in size from Portia, found a number of options. In the end, she selected a summery dress that was floral with a white background that went to just below her knees rather than to the floor and over which she could throw a basic denim jacket. Horatio, being only a little taller than average and a perfectly normal build, found a lot that he wasn't totally used to but selected jeans and a dark green t-shirt that seemed similar to, but more relaxed than, what Hamlet had started out in. Hamlet, being definitely taller and thinner than average, had less luck, especially with his penchant for black, but finally settled on slim-fitting dark jeans that were a little too short and a black, long-sleeve v-neck that was definitely too short in the sleeves. 

Showered, slightly damp, and wearing clean, if slightly awkward, clothes, the three strangers returned to the main room where Nerissa was waiting. Juliet grinned and complimented the two men on looking halfway presentable again, and Nerissa chuckled along with her. Not responding, Horatio made a point of not quite looking at Hamlet’s damp and wild mop of dark hair, and Hamlet made a point of not looking at Horatio’s bare arms in the new t-shirt.

Nerissa, knowing none of this, invited them to go eat along with everyone else who was there out in the garden with the musicians.

"But not you," Nerissa said to Juliet with a quick smile. "Bassanio should be here soon, and we're tricking him."

Juliet smirked a little but agreed, sending one wary glance back at the two Danes.

"Don't go too far," she said over her shoulder as Nerissa linked their arms, "in case the world starts melting."

They agreed and left her to her pranks and headed for the garden. 

It was a beautiful night, warm and calm and starlit, and the garden itself was fragrant with blooms from the fruit trees and flower beds. There was a picnic table set with food, and musicians on a slightly raised platform just near the stone wall of the manor, and one couple laying nearly in each other's laps on a blanket just in front of them. Besides the couple, a handful of people were there already, eating and drinking wine and looking fabulously comfortable and at ease. Everyone was a bit confused by the two strangers, but not enough to actually make the effort to get up or investigate further. Besides, most of them accepted that Horatio was, in fact, Gratiano, so he had just as much as right as anyone else to be here and bring a friend. The couple themselves didn't seem to realize anyone else was there at all. So Hamlet and Horatio grabbed plates and found a spot to sit along a terrace wall. As they sat, they listened to the music and ate without speaking.

Hamlet, though, did keep stealing glances at his friend, unsure if maybe he'd just imagined what had happened in the carriage. Maybe he'd read too much into it, the hand-holding and the conversation. Maybe it didn't actually mean anything. Maybe Horatio had just been being nice, like he always was. Maybe he’d just been humoring Hamlet, or pitying him maybe. Maybe he'd over exaggerated the expression on his friend's face. 

He felt sick. He felt stupid. He felt a lot of things.

Horatio was fixedly not thinking about and not feeling anything, or at least, that's what he told himself.

Once they’d both eaten, they found themselves sitting quietly together and listening to the music as he echoed against the walls of the manor, still not looking at each other.

“Look,” Hamlet ventured finally, “we should probably talk about what--”

“We should,” Horatio interrupted, straightening his back, “ask the people around here if they’ve seen Romeo. Right? For--for Juliet?”

Hamlet’s mouth remained open a second before he shut it again and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Romeo.”

So they both nodded to each other again and then got up and began wandering through the collection of people in the garden asking about Juliet’s husband, to the best of their abilities. 

Hamlet couldn’t explain the drop in his stomach as he walked through, though, a throb very different from the normal pain he felt around his sternum. This was sharper somehow, and he didn’t really want to look at it. Not now. Maybe not ever. Horatio… of course he didn’t care about him like that. Of course he didn’t. He’d been being stupid, imagining things, blowing things out of proportion like he always did. Horatio was just his friend, just being nice, keeping the appropriate distance between them. It all made sense, was perfectly logical. It should have been reassuring to be able to be reasonable like this, keep his focus on asking random people about some random man while his stomach felt like it had turned into a pit, but the feeling didn’t comfort him for some reason.

Horatio asked people politely about Romeo and ignored the squeeze in his throat and behind his eyes. He couldn’t have handled it if Hamlet had tried to break it to him gently that he didn’t feel the same way, watch the prince try to find the right words to be nice while rejecting him. He just couldn’t do it, didn’t want to even imagine it, to see that balance they'd created broken. It would be better if they just ignored completely whatever weird moment had happened in the carriage, went back to being friends. Horatio couldn’t lose him as a friend, not when he cared about him so much, not when he was so important to him. It was better to just shove it down than risk poking at it and losing everything. He nodded vaguely to himself as he thought this, confusing the person who was talking to him, but that was marginally comforting. He was being logical, being smart about all this. So what if it made him feel like someone had punched him in the gut?

No one had seen Romeo, apparently, and both Danes finished and circled back to the spot they’d chosen on the wall. With a decent amount of space between them, they sat back down and returned to watching the musicians.

“Any luck? With Romeo, I mean?” Hamlet asked after a moment.

“Oh,” Horatio said, looking over at him. “No, unfortunately. No one’s seen anyone who looks like him around.”

Hamlet nodded back. “Poor Juliet. That’s gotta… suck.”

Relieved they were still talking, and about something else, Horatio agreed. “Yeah. I wonder if there’s any rhyme or reason to how people end up in certain places?”

“Yeah, it does make you wonder, doesn’t it?” Hamlet replied. He looked out at the people in the garden. “Are we gonna spend the rest of our lives dumped into other people’s lives?”

Horatio blanched. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

Hamlet ran both hands through his hair and gave a wry smile. “Well, there’s nothing we can really do to control it one way or other, huh? May as well make the best of it.”

Horatio grinned over at him despite all his previous reservations and declarations. “Look at you being an optimist.”

Hamlet actually laughed at that, and that laughter did wonders to relieve the strange tension between them.

Juliet and Nerissa stepped into the garden a few minutes later with Bassanio and Antonio in tow, looking confused and a bit chagrined, which the Danes assumed meant they’d pulled their prank successfully. The new group headed toward the Danes on the wall.

It was Bassanio who spoke first, extending his hand to each Dane in turn. “So Nerissa and Juliet here told us what happened at the courthouse, and who you all are.” He nodded at them both. “For being total strangers, you all really stepped up.”

“Truly,” Antonio echoed, looking between them with a somewhat solemn expression.

Hamlet grunted. “We really didn’t do much of anything. It was all Juliet and Nerissa.”

Juliet smiled at him. “Wow, hating women less, are we?”

“Oh come on,” Hamlet said with an exaggerated head role, “I never said I hated women. Now come here.” He hopped off the wall and took her hand, bowing briefly over it. “I’m sick of sulking around. Care to dance?”

Juliet, surprised, agreed and followed him out to the open patch of grass in front of the musicians, who had shifted into a more playful jig that had some of the other people in the garden also coupling off.

"Well, what do you say, not-quite-husband?" Nerissa asked with an extended hand to Horatio.

"Oh," he replied and then stood. "Sure. Why not?"

Hamlet guided Juliet through a few quick steps, hand to hand and without much precision, and she laughed and followed along. 

"You're not so bad," she said, allowing herself to be twirled, and Hamlet laughed back.

"Well, I'm glad you approve," he replied, pulling her back in. "So what did you and Nerissa do?"

Juliet giggled, reminding him briefly again how young she was for being so self assured, and told him the story of the ring and the trick to make Bassanio truly appreciate his wife. Hamlet actually laughed approvingly as she finished.

"I suppose your Romeo would never be so disloyal?" he asked with a teasing grin, stepping forward and back with her through the music.

"Never," she replied securely. "Just like I'd never be disloyal to him."

Hamlet spun her again, shaking his head. "I wish more women could say that."

Juliet raised an eyebrow. "Too many fickle women in your life, prince?"

Hamlet grunted in response and spun her through another step which twirled her skirt and brought them back face to face again. The other couples around them laughed and swayed and twirled as well, and the music rose louder at the encouragement of the crowd.

"Or maybe," Juliet ventured quietly, lips tipped up, "you've already found loyalty somewhere else?"

Hamlet glanced down at her sharply and then away. They moved through a few more steps while she waited, one eyebrow curled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied finally, keeping his gaze very fixedly away from where Horatio was smiling with Nerissa as they danced and talked.

Juliet rolled her eyes. "Sure you don't," she replied, allowing herself to be led again, "but I know love when I see it."

Hamlet looked at her more sharply now, brows drawn together, and when she'd first met him, the dark, glowering look might have intimidated her. Now she simply laughed at it, knowing there was no malevolent spirit behind it, not really, even for all his doom and gloom and posturing.

"Glare all you want," she said, continuing to dance. "I stood up to two feuding families and came out on the other side, so one prince isn't going to stop me."

Hamlet frowned at her again but continued to dance, maneuvering them over the grass and around the other swirling couples. Her hand was delicate and warm in his, and her steps were quick and practiced. She grinned and dipped her head at the people as they passed, sent Nerissa a teasing look, and then glanced back up at Hamlet as she noticed him still watching her.

"How'd you do it, then?" he asked at her questioning face. "Manage to stand up to the social and family pressure like that? How were you so sure Romeo was worth it?"

Juliet laughed again. "That's a lot of questions at once."

Hamlet huffed. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"But," Juliet responded thoughtfully, floating through a few more steps, "I guess my love for him and his for me was what mattered most. What made me the happiest, gave me the most fulfillment, made me feel most myself. So…" she smiled up at him gently, "it was worth the risk."

Hamlet stepped through another few paces with her, and then looked over her head at where Horatio was saying something to Nerissa as they danced together, both grinning. Horatio's sandy hair looked soft and dusky in the dim outdoor lighting, and his face was soft and kind and open like it so often was. His arms, so rarely bare like they were now, were sturdy and strong as he led Nerissa backwards, still grinning, but that was all of him really. Sturdy, strong, reliable. Good. So many of the things Hamlet was not, that had drawn them together even before the mess of his life, kept drawing the prince back toward him like a planet circling the sun. How he hadn’t realized it, had managed to shove away those feelings and not look at them for what they were… 

Horatio laughed at something Nerissa said, and Hamlet’s stomach turned over inside him like the traitorous beast it was. He jerked his face away to look at Juliet again, who was watching him with a faint smirk. He frowned at her again.

“Don’t start,” he grunted.

Juliet’s smirk grew. “I didn’t say a thing.”

They swung through a few more steps, the prince’s steps going more rigid while Juliet resisted every impulse that said to keep needling at him until he opened up.

The silence apparently worked better than any needling, as she should have known it would.

Of course the prince couldn’t abide silence.

"He doesn't…" Hamlet said finally, drawing them closer together so he could keep his voice low. "He doesn't feel the same way about me."

Juliet's smirk took over her whole face now.

"Oh, don't gloat," Hamlet snapped in response, but she only smiled more.

"How do you know he doesn't feel the same way?" she asked after a moment. "Have you actually  _ talked  _ to him?"

"Well, yes… sort of. I mean…" Hamlet looked briefly at his feet. "We've-- I've tried to… maybe?"

Juliet rolled her eyes again. "Men."

"Well, he's," Hamlet put in quickly, dropping his voice once more, "he's my best friend, the only person I can really trust. What if I scare him off, make him uncomfortable because he doesn't feel the same way? And we're both, well," he gestured vaguely with their joined hands, "what you just said, so that complicates things further--a lot further. And I'm a prince, and he's not one, and there's so much going on at home right now and--" 

Juliet shut him up with a look.

"First of all," she said flatly, "men have liked men through all of history, just like people have always loved the 'wrong' people, so let's not pretend no one has ever faced complications in love before."

Hamlet blushed but stayed quiet.

"It's never gonna be easy," she continued, voice a bit gentler, "but if there was ever a time to address it, it's probably when you're very far away from all the social and family pressure you were just mentioning." She nodded out at the rest of the garden. "No one knows you. You're nobody." At his affronted look, she amended with a chuckle, "You're nobody in this  _ story _ , and nobody here seems like they'd care much about who fell in love with who."

Hamlet looked over at his friend again, the comfortable way he moved and talked with Nerissa, the familiar shape of him, the familiar expressions and hand gestures and little body ticks. The components of the one person in the world he truly loved and trusted.

The thought made him feel a bit like throwing up.

"But he might care," Hamlet said quietly, still watching the other Dane. "And he's all I've got."

Juliet felt the pain coming off his words as if they were visible. She squeezed his hand, and he looked back down at her. 

"I'm sorry," she said, unsure what else she could offer.

Hamlet shook his head and twirled her again. "It's fine," he said as he brought her back to face him. "It's… what it has to be."

Juliet shook her head too, not sure she believed him, but didn't say anything else. 

They continued to dance, and the music swam over them, and the stars twinkled silently high above, watching the humans lead their strange and tangled lives so far below.


	5. Part 5 - In My Heart of Hearts, As I Do Thee

**Part 5:** A wedding leads to some unresolved feelings coming to the surface, and Hamlet and Horatio have to decide to be brave or keep pretending. ( _ Much Ado about Nothing  _ and briefly _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ ).

Chapter 15

When the world still hadn’t melted by the time everyone else had retired to bed, the three strangers decided with only a bit of awkwardness that they ought to just sleep somewhere they could stay near each other and grab on if the world did suddenly start disappearing around them. They couldn’t just stay awake forever, and none of them exactly relished the idea of being left behind in a strange story that wasn’t theirs. So that trumped any weirdness that might come from a trio sleeping near each other on the ground in the garden.

Nerissa really had no idea what they were talking about, but she accepted it and brought them blankets and pillows that they could put wherever they wanted.

“If you change your minds, though,” she said as she passed the bedding over, “there are plenty of rooms for you.”

“Somehow,” Horatio said, rubbing the back of his neck, “it seems a little less weird if there’s no beds involved.”

Juliet blushed, and Hamlet looked up at the sky to pretend he wasn’t there, and Nerissa shook her head but accepted it.

It was a nice night outside anyway, the stars brilliant overhead but the garden dark except for the few lanterns still burning near the door, and the air was warm and calm. With pillows and blankets, it was far less awkward than the beach had been, and they’d survived that without any terrible complications. So they made pallets side by side with at least a foot between each of them and with Horatio in the middle. For a while, they simply lay on their backs staring up at the stars and talking in low voices about the garden and Portia’s manor and the party that night. They talked a little about Verona and Romeo, a little about Denmark and the royal family, a little about university and books and travel. Juliet fell asleep first, curled up on her side facing away from the Danes and snoring lightly. That left the two young men to lay on their backs in silence while the weight of the things unsaid hung between them.

Still, they fell asleep eventually, exhausted from the strange lives they’d been living.

Hamlet slept fitfully, like he usually did, but as the small, dark hours of the night came on, he dreamed. 

He'd been struggling with bad dreams for weeks, the kind that brought him to a half-waking terror where he thrashed in his bed and couldn't rest again. In them, he saw Claudius laughing on a throne, saw his father the ghost in his silent rage, saw the corpse of the old king, saw his mother tucked against the new king's side as they both laughed at him. Sometimes he just dreamed of swords and snakes and fire and woke up covered in sweat. He never seemed to be able to tell where the dream ended and reality began again. Sometimes he would just lay in his bed, wrapped in against himself, unsure if he was awake or asleep, if his eyes were opened or closed. Sometimes he got up and roamed the halls like a ghost himself, knowing them without seeing, walking in darkness with just the occasional finger brush against the cold stone to remind himself he wasn't dead also.

He'd had a break from them since this odd "melting world" situation had begun, but even in the quiet unfamiliarity of the garden, his nightmares still found him.

He saw the ghost of his father again out on that cold parapet, still done up in armor, face grizzled and grey, except this time his eyes flashed strangely red. As Hamlet stood still and watched, feeling terribly small, the ghost grew, loomed over him, and asked in a voice that cut through the prince’s skin why he hadn’t sought his revenge, why he hadn’t killed his uncle, why he’d become such a disappointment. There was Claudius, laughing on his throne that dripped with blood, and Hamlet jerked away. But the ghost's voice continued to boom. It echoed through his head, and even if he tried to shut his eyes and cover his ears, he still saw the ghost, still heard it, still felt its icy hands on his skin, around his throat. His hands were bloody, his chest was burning. The ghost’s eyes were glaring into his soul, angry, disappointed, hateful.

He thrashed in his sleep without realizing it, smacking Horatio sharply in the side. The other man grunted, half waking up, and rolled and reached toward whatever had hit him. He tried to mutter something, squinting blearily into the dark of the garden as his hand landed on a shoulder. As his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of Hamlet next to him, constricted in on himself, face squeezed tight, fists knotted up against his chest, breath coming out in sharp pants. Without thinking, Horatio stroked the soft fabric on his arm like one might pat a nervous cat, and let his eyes go closed again.

Hamlet, similarly half-awake at the touch and brain still twisted up with terror, reached out desperately and caught hold of Horatio’s shirt, clenching it tight in his fist.

“Hey,” Horatio muttered, waking up a bit again, “hey, ’s ok.” He moved his hand to pet up into the prince’s hair, not questioning what he was doing, why he was doing it. His hands moved like he’d done this forever, as naturally as breathing. “You’re ok.”

Hamlet’s skin was too tight, something clenching his rib cage in a vice. He wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep, but he knew that the voice, the hand on his neck, was comforting. That was safe. That was ok. That wouldn’t hurt him.

He pressed forward, thrust his face into the space of Horatio’s chest, tried to take a breath. The fabric smelled clean and unfamiliar, but under it was something known. He took another shaking breath, clinging still to the fabric for dear life, body still knotted too tight, the ghost's presence still nipping at his back.

Horatio blinked a few times, confused, but continued to rub the prince’s back. Really, he assumed this was just a very odd dream, so he wasn’t terribly concerned about what he did within it, and the gentle strokes seemed the most natural response.

“ ‘s ok,” he mumbled, unsure entirely what he was saying or what was happening. “Everything’s ok. You’re ok.” He pet up into the hair again. “What’s wrong?”

Hamlet’s jaw hurt from clenching. He worked to pry his mouth open. “Nightmare,” he managed to hiss to the body, to the voice, to the hand stroking down to his back again. His hand that was still fisted in the other person’s shirt relaxed and then clenched again.

Horatio hummed something. “ ‘s ok,” he said again. “Not real. You’re ok here.”

Hamlet shivered, sure the ghost was still there, still hovering over him, condemning him, hating him for his inaction. “You sure?” he managed to ask, taking one more breath, forehead pressing into the hard shape in front of him. A sternum maybe. Something solid.

“I’m sure,” Horatio responded, half-forgetting what he was answering. He shifted, cupped Hamlet’s neck, keeping him tucked up against him, and massaged gently. “It’s all ok.”

Hamlet took another shaking breath, felt a bit of the vice on his chest release. He nodded weakly against the shape in front of him. The hand snagged in the shirt relaxed enough to dip and cling to the person's back, keep them pressed together. He could feel the person's breath on his hair, the soft rub of a palm on his skin.

“I’ve got you,” Horatio muttered and fell back asleep.

Hamlet nodded again, let himself be held. It was strange, being cared for. It didn't make sense. Usually he'd lay awake the rest of the night, sit painfully straight in his bed and wait for morning, get up and walk like the hunted. 

Tonight, he found the images fading, the terror lessening. He took another breath. Slowly, lulled by Horatio's even breathing, he managed to fall back asleep as well.

This time, he didn’t dream, and the stars wheeled through the sky as it began to give way from black to blue.

By the morning, the Danes had rolled back to their separate pallets, and they woke up as the sun got too bright with no clear memory of the night before. Hamlet, as he sat up and squinted up at the sun, had a vague memory of a nightmare and being comforted, but when he glanced back over at Horatio still sleeping on his back, he imagined he must have simply dreamed that too. It made a certain degree of sense, and he appreciated his brain giving him something so comforting in exchange for the nightmare. It usually wasn’t so kind.

Horatio woke up a minute or so later, sitting up and stretching his neck. He thought he vaguely remembered talking to Hamlet during the night, rubbing his back, feeling him breathe against his chest, but that didn’t make sense. He looked over at the prince, who was rubbing his face brusquely, face lined..

“Did we…” Horatio ventured quietly, “talk last night?”

Hamlet dropped his hands from his face and squinted over. “I don’t… think so. Why?”

Horatio shook his head. “Just a weird dream then. Nevermind.”

Neither mentioned it again as they got up and stretched and smoothed down their rumpled clothes and watched to see if the world was changing at all. Juliet woke up a little later and sighed up at the sky.

"Are we just stuck here then?" she asked to anyone listening, trying to ignore the pang of sadness in her chest. Sure, she'd grown tolerably fond of the Danes, and this story didn't seem too bad, but without Romeo…

She tucked her knees up against her chest, smoothing her skirt around her thighs to keep herself covered, and tried to keep herself similarly steady. She’d been ready to forsake everything for Romeo, hadn’t hesitated, but to be without him  _ and  _ without anyone she’d ever known? It was too much, and Juliet was stiff and tired and groggy and sad. She let her head drop to her knees. Really, she wanted to cry, cry until Romeo suddenly appeared and swooped her up in his arms and carried her away. 

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up. It was Horatio, crouching beside her while Hamlet wandered inside. Juliet rubbed her eyes, not realizing she’d actually started crying.

“You ok?” he asked gently.

Juliet blinked away the last of her tears. “Yeah,” she replied. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She pressed her hands into her knees and then finally shifted to stand. 

Horatio straightened beside her.

“You sure?” he asked. “Because I know it’s a lot right now.”

“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “No, it’s ok. Nothing to do but keep going.”

Horatio nodded, and they started inside as well.

Just as they were getting close to where they heard some of the voices from inside, the walls above them began to get blurry. 

“Oh no, no, not right now,” Horatio said to himself, feeling a stab of panic hit his stomach, and he grabbed Juliet’s hand and started running.

She yelped but clung to him as she was dragged along, barely staying connected as Horatio ran around a corner and into the room where they’d heard the voices coming from. 

“My lord?” he yelled, trying to look quickly through the room, terrified as he scanned the confused faces of the people at the tables and leaning on the walls. “Prince!”

No sight of him yet, and the walls were dripping more, the voices going hazier at the edges, the more concrete shapes getting ragged. Who’d be left behind? How would they ever find each other again? He squeezed Juliet’s hand tighter, because he didn’t want to lose her either, but he was most concerned with the prince, who he still couldn’t find.

“Hamlet!” he bellowed finally into the increasingly blurry room. “Hamlet! Where are you?”

“Here!” said a familiar voice from just behind him, accompanied by a hand on his arm just as the world went dark again.

They all stayed frozen in place, clinging together, and waited for the world to reform back over them again, which it did, slowly but steadily: walls around them, sun through wide windows, the murmur of voices in front of them. When everything settled, they seemed to be in the foyer of a chapel, just inside the main doors, and just behind a crowd of people also all waiting to go inside.

Horatio dropped Juliet’s hand and whirled on Hamlet, still feeling that shake of terror at losing him, but the prince was smiling at him, eyes bright.

“I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my actual name before,” he said, grin broadening.

Horatio’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. It’s not appropriate, but when I’m worried that we’re about to get separated…”

“Yeah, well,” Hamlet said with a shrug, "we're here now--"

"Wherever 'here' is," Juliet cut in, looking around. "Not Denmark?"

"Not that I've seen," Hamlet answered, glancing briefly around, but turned back to Horatio. "Really, you know I’ve always told you to just call me by my name. Especially now. Who gives a shit about titles when--”

“Hey!” a middle-aged woman from the group said, approaching them with her brows pulled together. “The wedding is about to start. You--” she said with a sharp point at Hamlet, “are supposed to be inside, and you two--” she said with a quick point between the other two, “are meant to be getting masked and ready to follow Hero!”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Hamlet asked, and then paused as he listened to the buzzing now happening around his ears.

The woman eyed them, clearly realizing these weren't quite the right characters, but dismissed her concerns immediately.

“Shoo!” the woman said, sweeping her hands at Hamlet. “Get in and take your seat now! And you two, come with me!”

“Um…” Hamlet said, looking over at the others, who shrugged, similarly confused by trying to listen to their own directions as well as the insistent woman in front of them, “I guess I’ll… see you in there?”

After another shooing gesture, Hamlet finally headed up through a side door and into the chapel itself. Confused, he found a seat near the front and sunk into it, looking around him at the other handful of people seated in the pews. Then he found his attention drawn to a very sad and pale groom standing up at the front with another man in nicer clothes but a similarly gloomy expression just behind him.

"What's going on?" Hamlet hissed to a women in the row behind him, but just then, the main door opened and the woman shushed him and turned to look.

It was a very strange procession of a friar, an older man, a woman in a fancy gown with a mask on, and then Juliet and Horatio, similarly masked and following slowly behind. They all stopped at the front, the friar moving to take his place between the groom and then the young woman in the gown with her father (or at least, so the directions supplied in Hamlet's ear). There was a moment then of solemn discussion as the groom agreed to marry the masked woman. The people in the seats muttered in approval, and Hamlet looked around at them. The groom and masked bride joined hands and made a quiet vow, the groom still looking a bit like he was about to be shot. But as soon as the vow was said, the woman removed her mask and everyone gasped, which Hamlet didn't understand, but everyone seemed happy. The groom gasped too, reached for the woman hesitantly, and after a bit of conversation, the bride and groom were smiling and kissing again. After that, Hamlet stopped watching and focused on the whispering around his ears, which was getting louder and more insistent.

Well, it was better than Macbeth, for sure. Better than Romeo too. Hamlet shook his head. Still, what was wrong with these stories? 

Regardless, he didn't relish the idea of having to declare his love for someone in front of all these people. And based on the masking drama, it would probably be Juliet. She'd probably just laugh at him and tease him about it later, but they could probably bluff their way through it without too much incident and everyone would be happy. He wasn't sure why Horatio was up there, also still masked, and looking terribly nervous just based on his body language, but when the directions told him to, Hamlet stood and approached. The people in the crowd watched, a few giggling to themselves because they apparently knew what was coming better than he did. He stopped near the front, where the married couple were holding each other and staring lovingly into each other's eyes. Hamlet looked instead between his two masked friends, ignoring the twist in his gut.

"Uh," Hamlet began, trying to remember he was just being an actor again, just like the other times, "which of you is Beatrice?"

But instead of Juliet, which would have been infinitely easier, it was Horatio who pulled off his mask, the face beneath it already red. He couldn't look Hamlet in the eye.

"I answer to that name," Horatio said, somehow turning a darker red as he looked at the ceiling, "I guess."

Horatio felt a bit like this story was mocking him, making them play-act as lovers, declare their love for each other when Horatio himself had been biting the words back on his tongue for almost a year now. Still, he didn’t look at Hamlet as the other man shifted foot to foot, also blushing now, eyes a bit unfocused as he listened to the directions.

Hamlet wet his lips, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, incredibly embarrassed to have this happen with an audience of strangers watching and laughing.

“Do you…” he ventured, the directions buzzing in his ears, “do you love me?”

Horatio’s gaze snapped to his, and Hamlet gave a slightly apologetic smile, lower lip between his teeth. He shrugged a little, hoping he was conveying that this was just acting, just following the directions. 

“I, uh…” Horatio swallowed, still more panicked than he wanted to be as he tried to listen to the directions but also his own frightened heart. 

“No,” he said finally, “no more than’s reasonable, obviously.”

“Oh,” Hamlet replied, “right, of course. So then I guess these people,” he waved vaguely up at the bride and groom and the other attendants off to his side, “lied to me about it--Benedick about it. I don’t know. You know what I mean?”

Horatio stared at him. “Right.” He crossed his arms over his chest as the directions muttered to him and he tried to ignore his other thoughts. “Do you… love me?”

Hamlet colored also and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I mean… no, of course not. Same as you, right?” He rocked back on his heels. “Just the… normal amount of love.”

“Well then,” Horatio said, motioning to Juliet and the bride, who was giggling at them now, “they lied to me too, because they said you were sick with love for me.”

Hamlet actually laughed, just a little, in a way that sort of hurt. “Well, I was told the same thing, so, here we are, I guess. Not… in love with each other.”

“Of course not,” Horatio echoed, turning red again.

“Oh, you stupid, stubborn, liars,” Juliet said, pulling off her own mask and glaring at them. “These people already know Beatrice and Benedick love each other,” she said, gesturing between the two men, “so just pretend. And besides,” she added with a cocked eyebrow, “I’ve watched you long enough to know how you feel about each other--it shouldn’t be that hard to fake.”

Hamlet sent her another withering glare, which she simply returned with a self-satisfied smirk, and Horatio became fascinated with the pattern on the ceiling high above, and the crowd in the pews giggled and cheered. 

“Fine then,” Hamlet said, still glowering at Juliet and not looking at Horatio, “we’ll say we’re in love then, huh? Just to… keep all this going the way it’s supposed to.” He finally glanced over at Horatio, who returned the look after a moment.

“Fine,” Horatio responded, keeping their gaze level, “but just for… the sake of the story. Just… that. Nothing actually--you know what I mean.”

“Right,” Hamlet said, taking a few steps toward him, “then I’ll… I guess I’m supposed to…” 

His stomach was turning over inside him, sick and nervous and excited all at once, as he got nearer to him. He reached out hesitantly, let just his fingertips brush along Horatio’s cheek. The other man shivered under his touch, not dropping his eyes, lips parting slightly. Hamlet leaned forward, allowing the other man plenty of time to move back or dart away should he choose to, and let his hand drift around to cup the back of Horatio’s head. Then his lips found his, just for the briefest press.

It was like a fire sprang to life in the middle of his chest, brilliant and beautiful and blinding.

Then Horatio pulled back, immediately moving out of reach.

“I can’t do this,” he barked, looking terrified as his eyes darted around the room. Then he turned and fled down the center aisle, to the bewilderment of the crowd and the other onlookers. A few people stood to watch him go.

Hamlet stood frozen a moment, watching him run, throw open the doors, and then dart into the foyer. He looked briefly over at Juliet then, face a frightened question, and she gestured sharply for him to follow.

“Go!” she hissed at him, shaking her hands toward the door again, “go tell him now!”

His brain faltered a moment at the words, at the pressure, but finally Hamlet’s legs remembered how to move.

Then he ran too. As he did, he briefly considered the ramifications of whatever actions he chose to take here. But he dismissed them immediately.

Consequences were for future Hamlet to deal with, and fuck that guy anyway.

Chapter 16

Horatio paced in place, hands knotted in front of him. His breath was coming too fast, and his face was still hot, and he didn’t know what to do except walk toward one wall and then the other. This wasn’t like him, to be the one erratic and pacing and frantic. The damn prince did this to him. He shook his head and clenched his hands and took another step.

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t play at something he felt to the depths of his bones, just pretend it didn’t affect him when Hamlet looked at him that way, when he touched his face, when he kissed him.

That kiss. He could still feel it all through him like lightning, like someone had flipped on all the switches in his body at once.

And it was fake. A game. Because of this stupid story they’d gotten thrown into.

He squeezed his hands tighter together, nails digging into the skin.

The door off to his side opened, and then there was Hamlet, stepping into the foyer and shutting the door behind him. Horatio stopped pacing but kept the distance between them, kept the shield of his hands and arms in front of his body. Hamlet bit his lip and walked closer, although he stayed almost a body length away from him, his own hands shoved once more into his pockets. He looked at the floor, rocked on his heels, and then looked at Horatio again.

“I’m--I’m sorry,” he managed, “if that was too much, or if I made you uncomfortable or something. I never want to upset you, or do anything to risk our friendship so--”

“No, it’s--it’s fine,” Horatio said, and looked up at the ceiling again.

But he was lying. He shook his head and looked at Hamlet again. “No, no actually, it’s not ok.”

His voice had come out sharper than he meant it to, and Hamlet looked at him in surprise.

“It’s not ok,” Horatio said again, stomach a tangle within him, and the words came out strangled. “I can’t--I can’t do that, listen to you-- pretend to...” He broke off, unsure what to do with himself now.

“Ok,” Hamlet said, keeping his voice gentle, and raised his hands, palms forward. “That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything else. It doesn’t…” he cleared his throat, “it doesn’t mean anything.”

Horatio’s stomach turned to a stone. He brought his knotted hands to his forehead, took a breath, and then turned to start walking again. Hamlet watched him, unmoving himself, confused and concerned but unsure what he’d said, what he should say now. Those ramifications were starting to worm their way forward again, making his thoughts anxious and weird again. He stood still.

They stayed that way a moment, Horatio pacing, looking down at the slightly faded carpet, while Hamlet stood and watched him. A clock on the side wall ticked loudly, and there was the sound of voices and music starting in the other room, but the foyer remained tense and quiet. Hamlet shifted on his feet, watching Horatio pace, trying to make sense of his thoughts and his feelings before he did something stupid and drastic.

“I’m in love with you,” he said suddenly, voice coming out loud and squeaky as he did, in fact, do something stupid and drastic.

Horatio stopped dead, pivoted on his heel, stared at him. The silence stretched again as Hamlet smiled weakly and Horatio glared back at him.

“No you're not,” he answered finally.

“What do you mean, ‘no I'm not’?” Hamlet asked, sounding offended. “I’m in love with you.”

“You can’t be,” Horatio replied, voice rising. “It’s just--it’s just for the--whatever this is!” He pointed sharply at the doors that lead back to the wedding. Within, the music got louder, and there was the sound of cheering.

A damn mockery, the whole thing.

“It’s not!” Hamlet insisted, stubborn now that he’d actually said something, done something.

“It has to be,” Horatio argued from where he stayed rooted to his spot on the other side of the room, the great swatch of carpet and air between them. “Because… because…”

Hamlet swallowed, beginning to understand. Fuck future Hamlet indeed.

“Oh, right, ok.” He looked at the floor, shifted his weight again. “You don’t… it’s totally ok that you don’t feel the same way,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and reasonable. He nodded, tried to smile at Horatio’s startled expression. “Your friendship is the most important thing to me, and I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize that--oh my god!” he yelped, making Horatio jump. “Oh I already did, didn’t I? Oh god, damn Juliet--I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, that it would freak you out, and now here I am--” It was his turn to pace now, taking one quick circle around the bit of floor he’d been inhabiting. “God damn, I didn’t want to risk losing you and now--”

“You,” Horatio said, breaking off his ramble and freezing Hamlet to his own spot again, “you think I don’t… love you back?”

Hamlet stopped and met his eyes again. “Well… yeah.”

“I…” Horatio began, something strange starting to bubble up in his gut, “I was worried  _ you  _ didn’t love  _ me  _ back.”

Hamlet stared at him, thunderstruck, quick mind trying to slow down enough to actually comprehend what was being said to him. Horatio was still looking at him, an openness in his expression, a tautness in his body. He was all broad shoulders, stiff limbs, sturdy legs. For someone usually so in control of himself, he looked confused and frazzled and hopeful all at once. His sandy hair was a tousled mess and his face still blotchy with embarrassment and his hands remained twisted up in front of him. 

Fuck, but he was beautiful.

“You love me,” Hamlet echoed, breathless, “because you were worried-- are worried that  _ I  _ don’t love you  _ back _ .”

Horatio swallowed, let his hands come undone from in front of him. He hated himself a little for it, but he liked the bewildered and awestruck expression on the prince’s face, his dark eyes bright and his lips parted and his arms and hands unsure what to do with themselves. He was the constant contradiction of being brilliant and idiotic, regal and ridiculous, dramatic and thoughtful, powerful and gentle. It didn’t make any sense at all. 

But none of this did, in the end.

Horatio finally nodded.

“Hamlet,” he said steadily, keeping his eyes on the other man, “I love you.”

The prince’s face changed like a sunrise, and he was across the floor in a few long strides, stopping just in front of Horatio, who didn’t drop his gaze.

“You said my name,” Hamlet said, beaming like a puppy, and Horatio nodded, chest light. “And you said you love me.”

Horatio swallowed again, forcing himself not to look or step away like he wanted to. “I do love you.”

“But you…” Hamlet said, some of the erratic energy coming back to him as his hands gestured out to either side, “you never said anything!”

“You never said anything either!” Horatio argued, starting to smile now. “And you… love me too.” 

It was almost a question at the end, but not quite.

“I do love you too,” Hamlet replied, biting his lip again. “I have for a… while, I think.”

“What does that mean?” Horatio said, and yes, there was definitely more smiling happening, something almost like laughter lurching up inside of him.

“I mean… it took me a while to realize exactly what it was I was feeling,” Hamlet admitted, scuffing a hand through his hair, “to actually recognize it for what it was, but I really think that ever since my heart’s been able to choose who it wanted to hold dear, it’s chosen you.”

Horatio blushed, still unable to keep from grinning. 

“Don’t just smile at me,” Hamlet said, smiling himself even as he tried to sound irritated and failed miserably. “How long have you loved me then and never said anything?”

Horatio shook his head, coloring again. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, watching those vivid, dark eyes of his prince’s. “Too long, I think.” He reached a tentative hand out and rested it on the prince’s arm. “Long enough, I hope.”

Hamlet moved to cover the hand on his arm with one of his own, let his fingers curl around it and hold. “Definitely long enough.”

He dipped his head to kiss him, but Horatio hesitated, taking a step back. Hamlet stopped immediately, moving back as well, although they both kept their hands together on Hamlet’s arm.

“How could we,” Horatio ventured, brain winning out for a moment, “possibly do this? We’re…” he used his free hand to gesture between them, “we’re not the traditional couple,” he finally settled on with a note of exasperation, “ _ and  _ you’re a prince, which I am very much not, and…”

Hamlet licked absently along his lower lip, which made something malfunction in Horatio’s brain, and he stopped talking.

“I don’t know how it’ll work,” Hamlet admitted after a moment, “but I also don’t know that we’ll ever get back home,  _ or _ what back home would even look like now,  _ or _ what I’d do or be like once I was there after all of this.”

Horatio nodded.

Hamlet took Horatio’s hand from his arm, held it in his, and brought it up to his lips. The gentle kiss on his knuckles coupled with the look Hamlet was giving him through his dark lashes did something ridiculous and wild to all of Horatio’s nerve endings, and he found himself a bit less concerned about the logistics.

Hamlet lowered their joined hand between them, moving now to link their fingers together.

He managed a nervous breath. “Do you want to… be with me? Whatever that might mean? Lovers, or courtship, or dating, or whatever we want to call it?” Hamlet asked, a lump in his throat again at the words, at the chance of rejection.

Horatio looked at him, rational thought and questions and concerns all battling against the surge of feeling running through him.

“Yes,” he responded finally, smiling once more. “Yes, I do want to be with you.”

“Then,” Hamlet replied, “we can figure out how it'll all work as we go. Yeah?”

Horatio squeezed his hand. “Yeah.”

“But I guess that means talking to each other,” Hamlet said, blushing a little again, “rather than talking to Juliet and just… staring longingly.”

Horatio’s smile widened. “You were staring longingly?”

Hamlet gave a vague shrug, laughing a little. “Oh, well, maybe sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Horatio said, squeezing their joined hand again, “I might have too. A little. Maybe.”

Hamlet chuckled. “So figuring it out as we go?”

“Yeah,” Horatio responded. “Yeah that sounds good to me.”

“Ok.” Hamlet licked his lip again, his own eyes drifting down to Horatio’s mouth and then back to his eyes. “Now can I… kiss you?”

Horatio’s stomach did a strange sort of flip, and he was about to reply but decided on a better option.

He moved forward to press his lips to Hamlet’s, freeing his hands to wrap them around the prince’s back and neck, pulling him against him. There was a moment of surprise before Hamlet melted into the kiss and embrace, letting his lips move to connect with Horatio’s, his own hands moving to cup the other man’s jaw and wrap around his shoulders. They moved like they’d always done this, fit together like this was an old and easy practice, as simple as snuggling back into a warm bed.

Hamlet drew back after a moment, not leaving the circle of the other man’s arms but looking down at him with a quirk in his eyebrows.

“I had a nightmare last night,” he said slowly, remembering, “and I think afterwards… you held me like this.”

“What?” Horatio said, moving to stroke a hand up and down the prince’s back, and then the memory came back to him as well. “Oh my god…”

“In your sleep,” Hamlet said, eyes going a bit misty, “half-asleep and with no conversation between us, you still took care of me, were there for me.”

Horatio blushed. “I didn’t know. It’s not--not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Hamlet insisted, stroking the back of Horatio’s head. The touch sent a shiver down the other man's spine.

“Really,” Horatio said, blushing at the look of almost tearful adoration on the prince’s face, “It was… subconscious, I guess.”

“Lovely subconscious you’ve got there,” Hamlet replied, leaning forward to kiss the other man’s forehead. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“Well…” Horatio said, looking away, “it wasn’t intentional.”

“Even better,” Hamlet said, and then pulled him back to kiss him again.

It was just as good as the first time, if somehow even more natural, and they didn’t even notice as the doors of the chapel opened until there was shouting and whooping happening off to their side. They quickly drew apart, although not as sharply as they would have before, and blushed a bit as the crowd laughed and clapped for them. Juliet in the front, clasped her hands over her heart and smiled.

“Aww,” she replied, looking between them, “my stubborn idiots finally talked to each other.”

“ _ Your  _ idiots?” Hamlet protested, but he was still smiling as she came forward and wrapped her arms around his middle in a tight squeeze. He grunted and patted her back, raising an eyebrow over at Horatio.

“Yes,  _ my  _ idiots,” she replied, letting him go and moving to hug Horatio, who accepted it a bit more warmly than Hamlet had.

The people in the wedding party wanted to congratulate them as well, although of course, they were still in the mindset that it was Beatrice and Benedick they were congratulating, but it didn’t seem to matter much to them that the pair looked very different than they had previously. A few people seemed a bit confused and asked them some questions, but mostly everyone was so giddy with love and reunions that no one cared much about the answers.

After a little while, everyone headed back into the chapel for more dancing and more laughter and wine toasting to the two happy couples. Hamlet and Horatio allowed themselves to be caught up in the slightly confusing gaggle of people they’d never met before but were supposed to know and accepted the toasts and cheers. Horatio, in the rational part of his mind, decided to enjoy how good natured everyone here was being about it, because he couldn’t imagine they’d get the same reception if and when they got back to Denmark. But he tried to keep those thoughts at bay, especially seeing Hamlet’s exhilarated and joyful face at having something to celebrate and people to celebrate with, and it helped that he kept sending sweet, wistful little smiles in Horatio’s direction when they weren’t right near each other.

Juliet took part in some of the celebration, hugging the bride and wishing her luck in her marriage and getting patted on the back for “her” part in making all of this happen, but after a little while, it just began to make her heart hurt. She did like watching Hamlet and Horatio no longer dance around each other like lovestruck dummies, but it also just made the pang of missing the person she loved all the stronger. 

She remembered her wedding to Romeo, dark and in secret with only the friar there to wed them. But she hadn’t needed anything more than that, had only needed Romeo to smile at her, to touch her hand, to kiss her and swear to her, and it was like all the joys of the world were there with her. Of course, she would have liked a wedding like this (without the masks and trickery and faked deaths obviously) with people around who loved her, cheered her on, wanted nothing but her happiness. But she couldn’t have that, would never have that. The best she could hope for now was to find him at all, and then they could run away and be together, just like they’d planned.

If she could ever find him. If he hadn’t forgotten about her in all of this mess.

Her expression must have given her away, because a moment later, Horatio was dropping into the pew next to her and passing her a glass of wine. She took it and tried to give him a smile.

“We’ll find him,” he said securely, nodding to her, and she looked up at him in surprise.

Horatio simply smiled at her again and patted her knee while they both took a drink of wine and watched the people in the party dance.

“You know you’re too good for that stupid prince, right?” Juliet said, raising an eyebrow at him, and Horatio laughed.

“Maybe,” he replied, taking another drink of wine, “but he’s…” he smiled and blushed again, “he’s mine regardless, so…”

Juliet nudged him with an elbow, grinning.

“But we’ll find your guy--your husband too,” Horatio said, “somehow. We have to. It’s not fair to you.”

Juliet sighed. “I’m not sure these stories really care about what’s fair.”

Horatio nodded, unable to disagree. They sat in silence a little longer and drank their wine, both considering but unable to come up with any useful answers.

“So, are you two going to be all lovey-dovey every second now?” Juliet teased after a while, nodding over at Hamlet still in the crowd again.

Horatio blushed again. “No, I don’t think so. That’s not really, well, me, for one. But we’re also still… figuring this out.”

Juliet shrugged. “Or you could just get married now. The friar’s right there. That’s what I did.”

Horatio looked over at her sharply and stammered something, but Juliet just laughed and nudged him again before turning her eyes back to the crowd of revelers and away from her own sorrowed heart.

Chapter 17

It’s hard to know how much control the poor book had over where it threw people, and why, and who. However it decided these things, characters continued to exist in the plays they’d been thrown into, or continued to move through them like the trio was. 

Lady Macbeth was finding she actually functioned quite well as a royal advisor when Macbeth wasn’t around, and was doing quite a lot to help Coriolanus keep control of the Romans and the Senate.

Puck discovered that playing pranks and messing with humans was as easily done in whatever story he ended up in, especially without the king and queen of the fairies to control him.

Beatrice and Benedick had found themselves forced together, had a raging fight that led to admitting that they actually did love each other, and then found that their quick wits and quicker tongues were actually pretty good at getting Rosalind and Orlando to stop playing games and make sense of their new forest life.

Portia, for her part, teamed up with Cordelia and did quite a bit to right the ship of warring kingdoms without everyone having to die. She was good at that, after all.

Hamlet, Horatio, and Juliet continued jumping through stories as the book bid them, always changing the plays just a bit, although typically for the better. Yet still, each time they checked to see if this was finally Denmark and Elsinore, and always they asked around for Romeo, whose description by now the two Danes who recite by heart. But after three more plays and roughly four more days of wandering through stories, making friends, playing parts, and dealing with each other, the Danes were starting to lose hope of actually getting home, and Juliet was getting increasingly solemn.

The two Danes still didn’t quite know what to do with each other and this new found honesty, but Hamlet, having always been the bolder of the two, took to hand holding, snuggling close to the other man, and peppering sweet and stupid terms of endearment into conversation. The last bit was probably just to make Juliet roll her eyes or grumble at him, but it still made Horatio blush. He wasn’t sure how to adjust to this after simply pining from afar for so long, and at the back of his mind, he worried about what people thought, what would happen, if it would last. But he tried to keep those at bay and accept each here and now: each brief touch, laughing glance, bit of confiding, quick brush of lips on his hand or his cheek.

Hamlet had similar worries and concerns, but he voiced them when they got the time, talking about what might happen in Denmark, how they’d explain it to people, asking Horatio questions about what he thought they ought to do. But neither actually had any answer, no matter how much talking happened, and Hamlet just needed to talk anyway, just like he always did. Typically, the plays kept them busy enough that there wasn’t time to worry about it or discuss it much, forced as they were to live in each moment. Instead, they played their parts, laughed with each other and Juliet, and very little about their actual interactions changed beyond those added touches and endearments.

The largest change was really in the handful of times they were able to sleep again for the night. If Hamlet woke up with nightmares, it was simply understood that he could tuck himself up against Horatio without question and the other man would pet his head and mutter sleepy affirmations and everything would be right in the world. Then in the morning they’d wake, tangled up still or not, give each other a brief and adoring smile, and continue on with their lives.

Juliet watched them, shook her head, rolled her eyes, made teasing comments, and ached through her heart.

Days and stories passed. 

On one last morning, the trio sat and watched a very bad play with a family of Athenians and a happy couple, and Horatio noticed Juliet’s downcast face. They’d spent the previous night wandering through the forest and trying to find the couple and trying to make sure everyone fell in love with the right people, magic or not (although Horatio still wasn’t sure he believed that there had actually been any fairies). But now, everything was righted and they were all in safe, comfortable seats watching some awful rendition of something tragic that had most people laughing.

But Juliet sat very still, mostly just looking down at her hands, face empty.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping his head closer to hers, “you ok?”

She shook her head, unspeaking.

Horatio frowned, unsure how to actually help, what he could possibly say. “We’ll find him,” he offered at last.

Juliet groaned, face clenching all at once. “Stop saying that. It’s not helpful anymore. You don’t know a damn thing.”

Horatio drew back, surprised, and Hamlet looked over and took his hand for reassurance. Horatio gave the prince a quick nod and turned back to Juliet, who had turned pink.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “It’s not your fault. I just…”

“You miss Romeo,” Horatio replied, nodding. “I know. I'm sorry. I wish… I could say something that would help.”

Juliet shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said, looking forward again. “Nothing we can do.” She rubbed her eyes. “Let’s just watch the play.”

So they did, all sitting a bit too tense for the bizarre performance happening in front of them, but Hamlet kept his hand in Horatio’s, occasionally running his fingertips along the back of the other man’s hand. Horatio accepted the casual caresses and pretended they didn’t send shivers up his spine while similarly pretending his logical concerns weren’t rattling around in the back of his head. Still, he glanced at Hamlet as he muttered something at the stage, trying to believe yet again that he and the prince actually were… whatever they were. It made him smile and made his heart feel warm.

The play came to an end and the terrible actors took their bows to the audience’s applause, which Hamlet didn’t give both because he refused to give up Horatio’s hand and because he refused to actually support the atrocity in front of him. Horatio, to make up for it, patted his leg, and Juliet gave a soft, polite clap beside him.

All at once, everything began to blur. By now, it had become rather predictable.

The trio grabbed hold of each other again and waited as the world melted, turned black, and reformed again. Except this time, as it reformed, Hamlet gasped, eyes going wide. Startled, Horatio followed his gaze as the ground formed under them and the buildings went up around them, or rather, one very specific building took shape in front of them. 

Elsinore. They were outside Elsinore.

The Danes were back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading this far! Definitely feel free to comment because I'd love to hear what Shakespeare references you're catching or enjoying or what you think! This is a continued WIP, so chapters may slow a bit but I will definitely finish it and get them all up here!


	6. Part 6 - Something is Rotten in the State of Denmark

**Part 6:** The trio is back in Denmark, but with Romeo playing as the troubled prince, things have gotten worse instead of better in the already tense court. ( _ Hamlet _ )

Chapter 18

Romeo was in hiding.

He didn't know what to do anymore, and after everything that had happened, the king was sending him off to England with some random guys that were supposedly his friends. He didn't trust it, just like he didn't trust anything going on in this damn castle. It was all watching and manipulating and sculking around.

What he wouldn't have given for some outright animosity, the clarity of actually shouting curse words and punching someone in the face.

Instead, it was all power plays and conniving. So he'd hidden under a back staircase the morning they were supposed to leave to try to come up with some solution out of this.

He knew he wasn't Prince Hamlet. Anyone else, though, seemed to either accept that he was the prince, or looked at him quizzically but decided not to question it, or watched him with no idea at all who he was or what he was doing. It was confusing, and frustrating, and awkward, even if that last point was probably all that had allowed him to go into hiding.

Still he’d heard every since he’d gotten here, like someone muttering in his ear, what the prince would likely think and do in whatever situation, but that didn't reassure him. From what he could tell, the prince wasn’t a terribly stable person and definitely didn’t have any friends or confidants except one man who wasn’t around, which left Romeo out in the cold. Sure, he’d dealt with some messed up situations in the past, but not  _ alone _ , and not like this.

He didn’t know how to do this. He wasn’t a prince, or a royal, or anything like that. He couldn’t deal with pressure and manipulation from kings and queens and royal advisors.

Oh god, the royal advisor.

Romeo, back tucked up against a cold wall, covered his face with his hands and tried not to think about it. If he could just muddle through this mess, maybe he could get back to Juliet and finally be joined with her in death.

It was a cold comfort, but it was something.

He couldn’t die here, alone and without her. He wouldn't.

He swallowed down his fear and looked back out at the servants coming and going through the castle and focused on the image of his Juliet’s face, his morning sun, his guiding light.

Even if they could only be together in a tomb, he’d make sure they were together. Somehow.

-Chapter 17

“Elsinore,” Horatio said in surprise, staring up at the familiar castle walls. “We’re actually…”

“We’re actually back in Denmark,” Hamlet finished for him. His tone wasn't nearly as pleased as the others might have guessed.

“Which means,” Juliet said, breathless and choosing to ignore Hamlet dour tone, “Romeo could actually be here.” She grabbed Hamlet’s arm, startled him out of his revelry. “We have to find him!”

“Right,” he replied, clearly only half listening, “but first we need to figure out what the hell is going on here.”

“What do you mean?” Juliet asked.

In answer, Horatio pointed up at the black banner flying, noting that someone of importance had died. Under that, it was clear more guards were patrolling as well, which seemed like a bad sign.

“Marcellus,” Horatio offered, gesturing up at the guards. “He’s got to still be here, right? And he’d know what was going on.”

“And we can actually trust him--hopefully,” Hamlet said, a twinge of darkness coming back to his voice.

“We can trust him,” Horatio said solidly, worry in a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Now we just have to find him.”

"Come on," Hamlet said, motioning with his head and starting toward a side door.

It was like everything they'd experienced in the other stories was gone, all those old fears and emotions crawling back into his skin. He walked without having to think, knew the castle like the back of his hand: the black and white floors, the white walls, the cold stillness of the air. No more buzzing in his ears, no guessing, no confusing stories. Instead, he felt that ache in his chest returning, as if the weight of the stone around him was pressing down on his chest. He walked, muscles tight, leading the other two through back ways toward the guard's chambers, not hearing as Juliet whispered questions that Horatio tried to answer. The place seemed even emptier than normal somehow, even more haunted than Hamlet had left it.

He thought he’d be glad to be back, glad to be home.

It didn’t feel like home anymore. Maybe it hadn’t in a long time.

Hamlet turned another corner, knowing there was a stairwell not too far ahead that would lead up through the servant quarters and to the guard stations. He focused on that rather than the blood rushing in his ears.

Horatio watched it come over the prince like putting on another skin: the doggedness, the dart of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw. He'd seen it after his dad died, and then intensified by the appearance of the ghost. Hamlet the haunted prince, all black and sharp lines and emotions just below the surface. Ready to snap like a chained up dog. While they'd been running around through other people's stories, it had lessened, more of the Hamlet he'd known coming back to the forefront, the man who laughed and joked and talked and teased. The man who nudged him with a shoulder, ruffled his hair, pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheekbone, looked at him with those open, vulnerable eyes. 

But now, back in Denmark, that Hamlet was receding again.

Without thinking, Horatio reached out to take the prince's hand, like they'd been doing for days now, those safe, loving touches. 

Hamlet actually jumped and whirled on him, looking for a moment like he didn't know Horatio. But his grip held on, and Horatio ran a thumb over the back of his hand, giving him a slim smile. A bit of the hauntedness eased, and Hamlet squeezed the hand once in return. But it didn’t last. After just a moment, he dropped the grip to continue forward, starting up that same quick, sharp pace. Horatio's heart lurched in his chest, palm feeling strangely cold, but he followed a half step behind. 

Juliet, staying quiet now, touched his arm and gave him a sorry smile. He just shook his head and watched the taut line of the prince again.

The hallways echoed with their steps but with nothing else, even the last morning light coming in seeming unable to warm the cold. They reached the stairs without speaking, and Hamlet started up them first.

Something flickered under those stairs as they started the ascent, but each of the trio was too distracted with her or her own thoughts to notice. That is, until a voice rose out of the dark.

"Juliet?"

The girl stopped, heart skipping inside her as she turned. The Danes paused to look too, Hamlet’s hand clenching on the rail.

"Juliet?" said the person at the bottom of the stairs again, a young man with rumpled dark hair and bags under his very blue eyes and tears starting down his cheeks. 

"Romeo!" she cried back, running down the stairs toward him.

"You were--I was told you were--" Romeo stammered before Juliet skipped the last step and threw herself into his arms, clinging tight around his shoulder. 

“Romeo--oh, Romeo…” she murmured, burying her face into his neck, tears coming to her eyes too. 

"You're alive," Romeo managed as Juliet moved to pepper his face with kisses: over his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, his lips, unwilling to stop touching him, kissing him, holding him again.

"I'm alive," she repeated, holding his face in her hands and gazing up at him. "I sent you a message - it was all a trick so we could be together! I never meant for you--"

But then he was kissing her instead of answering, questioning any longer. He pulled her into his arms and drowned in the feel of her, alive and well and whole. She kissed back, all those days of aching immediately washing away at his touch, his smell, his lips on her skin. She was home again, finally, and they could be together. She kissed him again, ran her hands up into his hair, clung on like if she let go again he might somehow disappear.

Hamlet cleared his throat.

Romeo and Juliet twitched, having forgotten anyone else in the world existed, and drew apart enough to look over. Romeo's brow furrowed.

"Who are they?" he asked, looking over at Juliet again, face wary.

"Friends," Juliet said immediately, smoothing a hand down his cheek. "That's Hamlet and Horatio. We've been--"

" _ You're _ Hamlet?" Romeo asked, looking the prince up and down with a slightly wrinkled nose. "Everyone thinks I'm you."

"And everyone thought I was you for some stupid reason back in your story," Hamlet said, similarly looking over the young man. 

He was maybe a year or so older than Juliet, stocky and compact and handsome, even with the surly look he was giving the prince. Hamlet, for his part, was glaring and bristling in a way that made Horatio lay a hand on his arm again. Hamlet glanced down at him and then back to Romeo. 

"Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else," Hamlet offered tartly.

The couple, still unwilling to stop touching each other, nodded together, and then Hamlet changed directions and headed back for his old bedroom. They still took back ways to avoid anyone in the royal family but soon enough had the door shut behind them in Hamlet's old room. It looked untouched, and Hamlet would have liked to just throw himself into his bed and hide there for a while, but Romeo and Juliet took that as their spot to sit nearly on top of each other. He frowned at them both again, which neither seemed to notice as they gazed at and touched each other. 

Horatio leaned against a wall not far from the door, looking at Hamlet as he stood in the middle of the room. The prince crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Romeo, who finally took notice of the agitated prince.

"What the hell did you do?" Hamlet snapped without preamble.

"Hamlet!" Juliet protested, glaring back. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I wanna know what’s going on,” Hamlet growled, still looking at Romeo.

The younger man stared at him, eyes flashing, but a moment later, his face crumpled and fell against Juliet's shoulder. She stroked his cheek, face pale, and then glared at Hamlet again. He stared back at her, surly and unrepentant. 

Still, everyone waited in the tense silence for Romeo to compose himself again. It took about a minute before he could look up again, lips drawn together.

"It's been hell here," he managed finally, looking up at Hamlet with his large blue eyes.

"No shit," the prince replied, and as Juliet huffed again, Horatio finally stepped forward.

"Come on," he said, grabbing Hamlet's elbow. "Let's give them a second before we start the interrogation."

Hamlet looked primed to argue but, at Horatio's face, finally nodded and allowed himself to be led from the room.

Horatio shut the door so they were alone in the hallway before turning on the prince. He wasn’t sure how to begin, what to even say, how he ought to approach this. 

After a moment of consideration, he threw all concern out the window.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped, fright tightening his throat.

Hamlet blinked at him in surprise. He opened and shut his mouth once. "I…"

"You're being an ass," Horatio said shortly, "again. I thought we were over that, especially to Juliet, who’s a good person, and you know it."

Hamlet licked his lips, swallowed, looked away, tucked his hands in his pockets. Horatio waited, arms crossed.

“So?” he asked, staring at the prince and watching the emotions and thoughts swim across his features.

Finally, Hamlet looked at him again, eyes bright. "I can't do this."

"Do what?" Horatio replied, stepping toward him and letting his hands drop, much of his irritation deflating at the pitiful look on the other man’s face.

"Be here," Hamlet said finally, voice barely a whisper, "be back in this again. It's too--it hurts too much. Everything…" He rubbed hard at his chest. "It's all back. All the pain and the fear and the rage and I can't… I can't…" His voice broke and he dropped his head.

Horatio stepped forward and pulled him against his chest, heart still beating too hard. He knew his Hamlet was in there, under all of it, somehow.

"I'm still here," Horatio whispered to his neck. "We'll get through this together."

He ran and hand up and down the prince’s spine, waiting as he took shivering breaths.

"I can't kill him," Hamlet muttered to Horatio’s shoulder, shaking. "I loved my dad, and it hurts and I hate Claudius, and I--I…" He pressed his face harder into the junction of Horatio's neck, as if he could hide from all of it there, hide from the images of the ghost, of what Macbeth had done in Scotland, of his own thoughts and pain. "But I can't… I can't do it…"

Horatio rubbed his back, risked a light kiss against the side of his neck, looking for the right words.

"Then don't," he decided on finally. 

Hamlet raised his head, surprised. 

"You're not a killer," Horatio said gently, brushing the hair from his forehead, "whatever you think--whatever people think. So don't be one." He watched Hamlet's eyes. "Tell the Queen the truth, or tell anyone. Make sure people know what the King's done. But let them deal with it. Do whatever you have to do to feel ok with all this and then we can just... leave." He stroked his cheek, keeping his voice even. "We can go anywhere, get away from Denmark."

Hamlet blinked at him, raised a hand to rub it over his eyes.

"You'd hate me," he murmured, "if I just left, acted like a coward, gave up all responsibility, being a prince--"

Horatio patted his cheek. "My sweet idiot."

Hamlet gave a startled, hiccuping sort of laugh.

Horatio steeled his courage. "You think I love you because you're a prince?" He stroked Hamlet's cheekbone with a thumb. "I love you  _ in spite _ of all the royal crap you bring along."

Then Hamlet actually did laugh, ducking his face against Horatio's shoulder again.

"Let's sort out whatever we need to sort out here, figure out a way to soothe your guilt, and then let's go," Horatio said firmly. "Yeah?"

Hamlet looked up at him again, swallowing once more. "Yeah."

"Now will you stop being such a dick to Romeo?" Horatio asked, and Hamlet managed a deep breath.

"Yeah, alright," he replied finally, and then tipped his forehead forward to rest it against Horatio's and breathe. "My god, do I love you."

Horatio blushed, smiling despite the nerves still in his stomach. "Yeah, well.”

Hamlet took another breath, managing a smile. “Why do you put up with me?”

Horatio chuckled. “Because I love you too. Should we go back in?"

Hamlet nodded and allowed them to untangle and turn back to the door. But he took Horatio’s hand and squeezed it once quickly before they entered again.

Romeo and Juliet were less on top of each other now, both looking solemn. Juliet looked up as they entered.

"There's…" she began immediately, "an issue."

Hamlet, stomach immediately dropping, bit back a snarky response and waited. Romeo looked up now, drawing his eye.

"People have been after me, watching me, spying on me," Romeo said slowly, "or, on you, as me. But… it got really weird and I… panicked."

Hamlet waited, worry growing. He glanced once at Horatio, who was also watching Romeo, and then returned to meeting Romeo’s eyes.

"The advisor, Polonius," Romeo continued, looking away, "he was hiding while the Queen confronted me, and I thought it was the king, and he was going to kill me and I didn't mean to, but I…"

Hamlet's blood was cold. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Romeo looked up again, tears back in his eyes. "I killed him."

Chapter 18

“Jesus Christ,” Hamlet muttered, taking a step back to lean into the wall.

“You…” Horatio began, “you…”

Juliet stood up. “He thought his life was in danger,” she said immediately, laying a hand on Romeo’s shoulder. “And now the king really is after him, so what are we going to do?”

“God, Ophelia,” Hamlet said, rubbing his face.

“What?” Juliet squinted at him. “I’m  _ Juliet _ .”

Hamlet waved a hand, affronted. “Yes I know that, for fuck’s sake, but Ophelia…”

“Who is that?” Juliet asked, looking between the prince and Horatio.

“She’s my, well, she and I were…” Hamlet began, glancing guiltily at Horatio, who was still staring at Romeo like he’d grown another head, “well that doesn’t matter, but she’s still my friend, and that’s her dad. Shit and Laertes--”

“Is gonna lose his damn mind,” Horatio finished.

“God, his fucking temper,” Hamlet said, scrubbing his face hard again. “But seriously, Ophelia first. She must know, right? And what’s she gonna do, with Laertes in France and Polonius dead? Shit…”

Romeo put his face in his hands, and Juliet wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“God, it’s like Tybalt again,” he muttered, feeling the tears burning in his eyes again.

She kissed the top of his head. “And we got through that. We’ll get through this too. It’s ok. These two,” she looked over at the two Danes, both in varying shades of distress, “are good guys, competent guys.” She said it with more assurance than she really had at the moment, but nodded anyway. “It’ll get figured out.”

Hamlet finally let his hands drop from his face. “Ok. Here’s what we do right now.”

The others looked up at him, and he tried to think, tried to put words together.

“Ok,” he said again, “Horatio, you’re gonna go talk to the guards. You know them and they trust you, and if anyone will know what’s going on around here, it’s them. See if Marcellus will come back here.” Horatio met his eyes and nodded. “Then I’m gonna go find Ophelia and talk to her. You two,” he said, gesturing at Romeo and Juliet, “just stay here. Juliet, just… get whatever information you can about what’s been going on recently?” Hamlet shook his head. “I didn’t mean to say that as a question. Just do it.”

Juliet frowned at him but didn’t argue.

“Ok,” Hamlet said, “and everyone just… try not to be seen. Keep a low profile. We don’t know what it looks like now that we’re back in the story,” he flicked a thumb between himself and Horatio, “but Romeo’s still here too. But we’ll figure it out. Just another story, right?” He smiled weakly at Horatio and Juliet, who tried to return the expression.

No one was feeling terribly confident about this particular story, and this time, there were no directions muttering in their ears.

After another tense moment, the group broke to go their separate ways.

Hamlet wasn’t sure entirely where to go but let his gut guide him through the castle again, avoiding areas he knew the king and queen were prone to frequenting. He knew Ophelia might not be here at all, might be back at her own place, but if his parents (well, his mom and his uncle, he thought with a sneer) had any decency, they’d at least bring her to the castle to try to take care of her since she was all alone. So he checked libraries, sitting rooms, and finally headed outside to the gardens.

Horatio felt strangely queasy about letting Hamlet go off by himself to see what was essentially his ex-girlfriend, but there didn’t seem to be any way around it. He knew his way around well enough to find a few guards he didn’t know terribly well, although they still greeted him warmly enough and asked him where he’d been recently.

He took a deep breath. “It’s a long story, my friends,” he replied. “Have you seen Marcellus?”

“Up on the battlement,” the guard said, looking a bit confused, “but it’s strange times, Horatio. I know you were friends with the prince, but…”

Horatio nodded, keeping his face flat, and headed up toward the battlement.

“You hate me now, don’t you?” Romeo whispered back in the prince’s room.

Juliet had been pacing, a habit she’d apparently already picked up from the two Danes, but at his words, she immediately walked over and sat down beside him again.

“Never,” she said firmly, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I could never hate you.”

Romeo covered his face again. “But I can’t believe I--”

“What’s done is done,” Juliet said, kissing his temple. “What matters is we’re together.”

Romeo looked over at her with wonder, eyes still bright with tears. “How could I possibly survive without you?”

Juliet smiled and kissed him. “You’ll never have to find out. I’m not leaving you again.”

And so the plot of  _ Hamlet  _ had gotten a bit more confusing, but the characters, those meant to be there and those misplaced, soldiered their way on.

Chapter 19

Hamlet wandered through the garden, which was in a full, wild bloom, and hoped against some hope that Ophelia was out there somewhere.

It seemed like a long time since he'd been out here. Too many memories tangled up with the plants, buried down in the roots. His parents, his childhood, his friends, his father’s death. Still, he slowed his walk and tried to appreciate the warmth of summer flowers regardless of situation. Against his better judgement, he thought of Horatio.

Hamlet rounded a corner, and there she was, seated on a bench with a bundle of flowers in her lap. Her blonde hair fell around her face in curls as she looked down at the flowers, picking at the stems as if she didn’t see them, face blotchy with crying. Taking a deep breath, Hamlet approached.

She looked up as he got close, eyes wide. Hamlet raised a hand in greeting. Or surrender. He wasn't sure.

“Um, so…” he began awkwardly.

Ophelia set her flower aside, stood, walked quickly toward him, and slapped him hard across the face.

“Christ!” Hamlet cried, staggering back and holding his cheek. “Jesus, what the--”

Ophelia immediately dissolved into tears, covering her face with both hands. She was a little older and a little taller than Juliet, but at the moment, she looked infinitely more fragile.

“What have you done?” she sobbed through her hands. “Are you trying to torture me? How  _ could  _ you?”

Hamlet shifted nervously but finally stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a timid, if awkward, hug. She shook him off and straightened, teary eyes blazing. He took a step back.

“If it helps at all,” Hamlet said, face still stinging, “it wasn’t actually me.”

Ophelia stared at him.

“I know it sounds insane,” Hamlet added quickly, “but there’s been some crazy stuff happening, and a guy named Romeo was actually acting as me, and he panicked, and apparently that’s how…” He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Ophelia continued to stare at him, mouth working to find words.

“Oh god,” she muttered finally, “you have gone mad. I thought they were just saying that, or it was just an act, but to  _ pretend _ \--”

“I swear to you!” Hamlet said, putting up his hands again, “that I’m not lying and I’m not insane.” His face twitched. “I’m not insane like that,” he amended, “I don’t think. Probably.” He shook his head, and she looked deeply unconvinced. “But what matters is I’m not lying and I didn’t kill anyone. And I’m…” He bit his lip and let it go, taking one wary step forward. “I know there wasn’t much love lost between your father and I, but I promise you, I’m so sorry for what happened to him.”

Ophelia took a shaky breath and looked down at the ground again, the breeze rustling the carefully tended plants. 

“I thought you cared about me," she said finally, startling the prince out of the quiet.

“I,” Hamlet replied, “I did care about you.”

Ophelia took another breath. “And now?”

“Now…” Hamlet said carefully, wishing Horatio was beside him, steadying him like he always did, “I still care about you. You’re still my… friend.”

She looked up at him, tears spilling steadily from her eyes.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked, voice breaking. “I know my father wasn’t…” She held her throat, eyes shutting tight again. “I know he wasn’t always the best person. I know he manipulated and spied, and I do wish I hadn’t listened to him and abandoned you but he…” More tears fell. “He was my father and I loved him, and he’s all I had!”

She covered her face again, shaking with tears.

Hamlet watched her, guilt twisting in his stomach. “I know,” he replied softly. “I know what that feels like.”

Ophelia met his eyes again.

“But we’re gonna… stick together,” he continued. “We’re gonna figure this out. You're not--you're not gonna be on your own."

Ophelia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“How can I possibly believe you?” she asked. “How can I trust you?”

Hamlet bit his lip again, the guilt growing. “Maybe…” he offered carefully, “you don’t have to trust me. You know Horatio, right?" 

Ophelia stared at him a moment but then nodded.

"He’s a good guy," Hamlet continued, "and you guys are friends. Right?”

Ophelia nodded again, still looking nervous.

“Trust him, then,” Hamlet said. “And there’s another girl, a friend, actually, and I know you two would probably be good together, and you can trust her too.” He kicked his feet at the grass, knowing what still needed to be said, dragged out into the light. “And I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have flirted with you, sent you all those poems and letters and stuff…" 

It felt like ages ago when it had happened, when he'd decided to flirt with the girl he'd grown up with, the girl who was sweet and pretty and giggled at his antics. He'd wanted to be dashing and romantic, write poetry and beautiful letters, have a girl sigh at him and be swept up in the dreaminess of all of it. He felt bad now, looking back. They'd been friends and he'd been being selfish, loving the  _ idea  _ of her and not her really. And then he'd gotten mad when she rejected him at her father's bidding, blamed her when deep down he'd know what kind of parent Polonius was, how gentle Ophelia was in response. 

Horatio was right. He was an ass.

Still, it seemed a lifetime ago. They’d both been very different people then. 

Hamlet put his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry for everything, Ophelia. I shouldn’t have led you on, and I shouldn't have blamed you when you stopped talking to me…”

His insides hurt, but it at least felt right to finally say it all.

The wind blew over them, soft and smelling like blossoms, and Ophelia rubbed her eyes and blinked at Hamlet.

“You’re…” she said finally, “very different from the last time we talked.”

Hamlet scuffed a hand through his hair and down his neck. “Yeah, well…” he replied, “I’ve had to work through some stuff the last couple days.”

Ophelia nodded again, still looking a bit confused. “Ok?”

“Will you come talk to the others?” Hamlet asked.

There was another tense quiet as the wind blew and Ophelia’s hair tangled across her face.

“Yeah,” she replied, “yeah, I will. And, uh,” she said, as he nodded and turned to lead her back toward the castle, “I'm sorry for slapping you.”

Hamlet actually gave a small laugh. “Nah,” he replied, looking over his shoulder, “I’m pretty sure everyone who knows me would argue I deserved it.”

At that, Ophelia actually managed a small smile.

Chapter 20

A strange collection of individuals ended up clustered in Hamlet’s bedroom, which was weird for someone who at best had one good friend he actually trusted. But now, he looked around the room in surprise. Horatio had brought Marcellus and another guard, Bernardo, who was looking in confusion at everyone else, while Ophelia had already arranged herself next to Juliet based purely on the soothing and confident power the other woman emitted. Romeo still looked like he might cry at any moment (which Hamlet was honestly feeling to his soul), and Horatio was standing on the other side of the room from Hamlet, unsure if they should be expressing affection in front of everyone. Juliet actually took and held Ophelia’s hand as the other woman started to cry again, and somehow, Hamlet found everyone’s eyes going to him for answers.

Like he had answers. Like he’d ever had answers in his damn life.

Still, he held himself still and looked over the room.

“Well,” he said, “here we all are.”

Not a terribly auspicious start, but no one was booing yet. He took another breath and decided to start at the beginning.

So he talked about the melting walls, about the different stories, about Juliet and playing as Romeo. He gave a brief synopsis of a few of the other stories just to validate his claim, left out any possible reference to himself and Horatio because he thought he’d throw up if he said a word, and finally explained what he’d just learned from Romeo.

“So… Polonius has died,” he said, looking at Ophelia, who broke into tears again and dropped her face against Juliet’s shoulder, “and Romeo, while forced to play as me, panicked and was the one who killed him. Now the king is after him, or after me.” His brow furrowed. “That’s the part I’m not quite sure about in all of this. It’s not a science.” He shook his head. “Regardless, I’m not going to let the king hurt anyone else--hurt anyone anymore.”

Confusion flickered across the faces of the people in the room, and Hamlet had the sickening realization that he’d probably have to confess everything now. Damn it. And he’d done such a good job swearing everyone to secrecy. He looked to Horatio for confirmation.

The other man lifted the corner of his mouth and nodded, as if he actually read minds, and Hamlet felt a bit more strength come back to him.

“My father, the late King Hamlet,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “came back as a ghost--which a few of you,” he gestured toward the guards, “also saw--but he told me that he was murdered by his own brother, Claudius.”

The looks and gasps that went around the room at that declaration felt appropriately dramatic. Those who’d known this already, like Horatio and Juliet, looked at the others with concern. The two guards looked stunned. Ophelia cried harder. Romeo continued looking at the floor.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Hamlet offered, “and I know all I’ve got for proof is a ghost and the fact that I hate him, which isn’t exactly foolproof, so it’s ok if you don’t believe me--”

“No,” Romeo said, looking up now. “No, he did it.”

Now it was Hamlet’s turn to join in on the shock and confusion.

“What are you talking about?” Horatio asked from across the room, straightening.

Romeo looked down at his hands in his lap and then over at Juliet, who nodded gently.

“Something made him feel guilty,” Romeo continued, “something about a play that was performed here the other night… and... and I heard him.”

“Heard him say what?” Hamlet said impatiently, and Romeo looked up at him.

“He felt guilty, and he was pacing and talking to himself, and he admitted that he had killed his brother but didn’t know how to repent because he couldn’t give up everything he’d gained--the kingdom, the throne, the queen,” Romeo put in, staring up at the prince. His face was dark. “But I heard it, and he did it. I know he did. It’s part of why I thought he was trying to kill me--that somehow he knew I’d overheard.”

Hamlet took a step back, head spinning. He’d suspected. He’d worried. He’d deliberated. He’d looked for clues and signs. The ghost hadn’t been lying, hadn’t been a trick. Claudius was guilty, well, guilty of more than just being power hungry and incestuous and a shitty person. Hamlet’s vengeance was justified. He felt the truth of it like a rock in his stomach. What was he supposed to do now?

Something, certainly. 

But only if Romeo could actually be trusted.

Something must have crossed his face as he thought it and looked back over at Romeo, because Juliet answered instead.

“He wouldn’t lie about this,” she said immediately, “and he wouldn’t have misunderstood.”

Romeo nodded, face tense. “I know what I heard. I know what he did.”

The room was quiet as people exchanged glasses, covered their faces, analyzed the floor or ceiling, or stared somewhat helplessly up at the prince, who was feeling pretty helpless himself.

“Well, if Claudius does suspect that his power might be in danger, he’ll fight to keep it,” Hamlet said carefully. “That I know about him. So we’re likely all in a bit of danger.”

“But we can’t move against him, not without concrete proof,” Marcellus said, finally speaking up. “My lord,” he added belatedly, and Hamlet waved him off.

“What about the queen?” Juliet asked, looking around at the Danes. “Does she know? Could she help?”

Hamlet shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. She could just be a pawn in Claudius’ reign of terror or she could have helped kill my father, for all I know.”

The guards exchanged glances, and Juliet’s face fell.

“So…” it was Ophelia who spoke now, voice high and small. She looked up at Hamlet, eyes still wet with tears. “Then what do we do?”

Hamlet looked at her, looked over at Horatio, who was looking a bit sick, to the guards who were clearly nervous, to Romeo and Juliet who were holding each other’s hands and tucking close together, and then finally back to Ophelia.

“Uh,” Hamlet replied, scrubbing a hand backwards through his hair, “I have no idea.”

Chapter 21

It was not a terribly successful or useful meeting, but everyone left with plans of their own. Ophelia decided she would send another message to her brother, telling him she was quite sure Claudius was responsible for their father’s death, which would at least help to spare Romeo (and Hamlet), and then she’d see what she could do to spur on some more guilt in the king and queen. The guards, who had not been terribly happy with Claudius’ rule anyway and the possible conflict with Norway that no one wanted, were willing to spread the word and look for any signs of weakness they could use to undermine the new king. Romeo and Juliet weren’t sure what to do except use their presence as strangers, especially now that the real Hamlet had returned, to see what evidence they could find of Claudius’ guilt. 

“Then you’re gonna need somewhere to stay, because I’m not having you in my room,” Hamlet said, just imagining the noises he’d end up hearing while trying to sleep if they were there too.

“What if the world starts melting again?” Juliet asked as she and Romeo rose.

Hamlet hadn’t considered that, and told them so, which just made Juliet roll her eyes and insist on not being too terribly far apart then.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, turning to the other man, “do you think you could help them find an empty room nearby?”

Horatio looked surprised and noted mentally that that left just Hamlet and Ophelia alone in a room together, which did make his stomach turn a little, but he tried to ignore it. Instead of saying anything, he nodded and led the couple out and shut the door behind him.

Ophelia stood, smoothing down the front of her dress. 

“I guess I should go too,” she said, “and write Laertes. I don’t know how soon he’ll get it but…” She sniffed again. “It’d be good to have him here again.”

Hamlet nodded. “Sure. Of course. You have, uh, somewhere to stay?”

Ophelia nodded, not elaborating.

Hamlet shifted foot to foot. “And you’re… are you doing ok?”

She side eyed him. “My dad just died.”

Hamlet colored and looked at the floor. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

She shook her head. “But this…” she gestured vaguely at the room, which he took to mean the people who’d just been around, “helped some. To not be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Hamlet said fervently, because he remembered that feeling like a knife to the gut. He knew what it did to a person, how it ate at them, body and soul. “I’m gonna make sure you’re not alone.”

Ophelia gave a weak smile, something flickering across her face, and she stepped forward to fold her arms around his middle.

Hamlet stood very still, unsure what to do. He patted her back a few times, not really the comforting person to turn to. Horatio maybe. Juliet in the right circumstance. Not him. For all he did care about her, would hopefully always be her friend, he was still… himself. More mess than man.

Still Ophelia hung on to him, tucked her face against his chest, and he continued to gingerly pat her back.

She lifted her face to look up at him.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling a little again.

“Sure,” he replied, looking down at her. “I mean, of course. Yeah. It’s the right thing to do.”

Ophelia smiled a little again, continuing to stare up at him with those round eyes and long lashes. She began to rise on her toes. Her eyes drifted closed. Her lips parted softly.

“Oh,” Hamlet said, lurching backward and out of her arms, “oh, oh no.”

Ophelia stumbled and stared at him in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

They’d kissed before, sweet, chaste, playful sorts of kisses. But now, Hamlet blanched.

“I--I can’t do that,” he stammered immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression about this--about what was going on here.”

Ophelia colored. “I… I just thought… you and I…” 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, still fumbling over himself, “I know we were--we had something, but I’m--I only--I can’t--”

Ophelia held very still, watching him with those round, tearful eyes full of questions, full of sadness, full of the memories of what they’d shared. Hamlet finally managed to get his mouth to stop moving and tried to think rationally, tread delicately. It wasn’t as though he and Horatio had had any sort of concrete discussion about what they’d tell people, what they were, what they wanted people to know. He needed to be careful, let her down gently, figure out some safe way around it for everyone.

“I’m in love with Horatio,” Hamlet blurted, rather than doing any of the things his brain had just planned.

If possible, Ophelia’s round eyes got even rounder. “You’re…” She looked him up and down in confusion, looked at the door Horatio had gone through, looked back at his eyes. “You like…” She cleared her throat, for the first time actually looking truly uncomfortable. “You like men? Did you not…” She motioned to herself. “Was I just…”

“I…” Hamlet faltered, “I did love you, once. I think. Or at least, I do think I’m attracted to women--have been attracted to women--was attracted to you.” 

Christ, what was he saying?

“But I also--I do love--” He took a deep breath to steady himself, pressing his hands together in front of him and using them to point. “It’s Horatio. And he is a man--as you obviously know, right, of course.”

Ophelia was watching him like she was worried he’d gone mad again.

“So I guess?” Hamlet ventured. “I do like men? So I like both?” His hands flew apart as he made some sort of wild, incomprehensible gesture. “Not that any of this matters! Not that you need to know any of this! But I can’t be with you because I’m with Horatio--is the point I was trying to get to.” He stared at her, face in a painful, questioning sort of smile. 

She continued to stare at him, unspeaking.

“Horatio,” he repeated, pointing with his joined hands again, as if that would somehow help the issue.

To his amazement, Ophelia’s face changed slowly, breaking into a smile and then into a laugh. She knelt, still laughing and hugging her knees around herself. It was such a strange, out of place sort of noise after all the crying, and the worry, and Hamlet’s own bizarre floundering.

He froze, staring at her with something like horror, worried now that  _ she _ was the one who’d gone mad.

“Um…” he began, kneeling down also to look at her. “Are you…?”

Ophelia covered her face and continued to laugh, but after a few more breaths, she finally composed herself. 

“I really did need that,” she said, smiling at him now. “With everything happening." She rubbed her eyes. "I really have missed you--that you, the old you,” she said, with a flick of her finger. “All--goofy and babbling and frantic.”

“I’m usually better at talking than that,” Hamlet muttered.

Ophelia giggled again, looking at him. “That’s true.”

“But you’re not....” Hamlet asked warily, “angry? Or disgusted? Or something?”

“No, not those things,” Ophelia said. “I mean, I’m a little surprised, and it’s not exactly…  _ normal _ , but...” She smoothed her hair away from her face again, “it’s not like I didn’t have my suspicions about you and Horatio.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Hamlet asked.

“I might be sweet and quiet but I’m not stupid, my lord,” Ophelia said, giving him a longsuffering grin. 

“But…” Hamlet started, now moving to just sit on the floor, “ _ I  _ didn’t even know until a couple days ago that I felt, well, the way that I felt.”

Ophelia shook her head and sat down also, facing him. “Well, I guess I'm glad you figured it out now. And it’s not as though you’ve ever been a very  _ traditional _ sort of man anyway.”

Hamlet cocked an eyebrow at her. “Should I be offended?”

Ophelia managed a little laugh again. “No, I don’t think so. That was what I’ve always liked about you, that you were different. And you do write really lovely letters,” she added with a wistful look. 

“I’m still sorry, about those I mean, about all of this,” Hamlet replied, folding up his hands behind his neck. “I was being a dick…” He glanced up at Ophelia’s gasp. “Sorry for the language also.”

Ophelia shook her head, plucking at a loose thread on her skirt. “You’re so different now, so much kinder, more responsible.” She shifted, tucking her long skirt around her legs again. “What changed? Was it Horatio?”

Hamlet blushed a little. “Partially, yes. He’s…” he looked away, “he’s so good, so rational, and he doesn’t let me act like an ass, which I need.” Ophelia smiled at him, and he managed a smile back. “And Juliet too, who  _ really _ doesn’t let me act like an ass. And, I guess…” he leaned back on his hands, “being in these other stories, these other people, having to play different parts, has sort of changed me too. It’s eye opening, and I think it’s helped me to get away from being trapped in all of this…” He motioned around him, and Ophelia nodded.

“Maybe I should do some traveling myself,” she said, voice going teary again, “go back to France with Laertes, do something for myself for once.” She shook her head.

“You should,” Hamlet said, leaning forward now. “You could. Look at Juliet. She ran off and got married to some guy.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure I’m ready for  _ that _ .”

“No, but without your father--” he broke off at the way her face changed and monitored his tone, gentling it. “Without anyone controlling you, you could go and do something for yourself. Anything you wanted”

Ophelia watched him for a moment, eyes briefly far away, but then she took a deep breath. “Let’s just get through the next few days,” she said.

Hamlet nodded. “Right.”

“Thank you for telling me, though,” she said, still looking a little embarrassed, “about you and, um, Horatio.”

Hamlet blushed again. “I guess you deserved to know, but I’m not sure how much we’re… telling people.”

Ophelia nodded back at him. “I see.” She smoothed her hair again and began to stand. “I really should go and see how quickly I can contact Laertes.”

“Right,” Hamlet said again and stood too. “See what he can do, how he can help you.”

Ophelia took another slow breath and then extended her hand. “Friends?”

Hamlet smiled and accepted the handshake. “Friends.”

Ophelia turned and opened the door to a shocked Horatio, who may or may not have been deliberating entering and if he could handle what he saw when he entered. Now he quickly jumped back, allowing the way for Ophelia to pass. She gave him a shy duck of her head as she walked by, turning and hurrying down the hallway without looking back. Horatio followed her shape briefly for a confused glance, and then turned back to Hamlet. 

The prince caught him by the front of the shirt and pulled him into the room, kicking the door shut behind him as he pulled the other man into a kiss. Horatio, startled, took a moment to adjust to the onslaught of passion hurdling at mad-prince-speed toward him, but accepted it nonetheless. Hamlet, relieved to have him here, to have the bit with Ophelia done, to not feel quite so isolated for the first time in months, ran his hands up into the other man’s hair and kissed harder. Breathless, Horatio kissed back.

After a moment, he drew away to catch his breath and look at the prince. 

“You alright?” he asked, because Hamlet had a bit of that frantic and erratic expression in his face that always made Horatio nervous.

“I actually think I am,” Hamlet replied honestly. “I mean, it’s a shit show for sure, but at least we know that the ghost wasn’t lying, we actually have some allies, Ophelia and I know where we stand now, and, well,” he smiled,“and I have you.” 

Horatio returned the smile. “You do have me. You’ve also sort of got crazy eyes, my lord.”

“Ugh,  _ my lord _ ,” Hamlet grumbled and then pulled Horatio back into a kiss. “What if I started calling you by a title instead of your name?”

Horatio chuckled between kisses. “I don’t have a title.”

“I’m sure we could find you one,” Hamlet murmured, pressing a kiss just under Horatio’s ear, which made the other man shiver. "Prince's Rational Compass? Prince Soother?” He laid another kiss against the line of his jaw. “Most Gorgeous Man in Denmark?"

Horatio snorted. “Come on,” he said, moving a little out of Hamlet’s arms. “Someone just died, and there’s a king who might try to kill us.”

“What the hell else is new in Denmark? We can’t stop living for something as trivial as treason and murder,” Hamlet said with a raised eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you agree, He To Whom the Prince Belongs?”

Horatio laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, but  _ your  _ idiot,” Hamlet replied, and kissed him again.


	7. Part 7 - Nothing Good or Bad but Thinking Makes it So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for depression and suicidal thoughts
> 
> These Hamlet chapters went a little off the rails, fyi so I apologize.

**Part 7:** As the trouble in Denmark intensifies, Hamlet starts falling back into old habits and his relationship with Horatio hits a breaking point. ( _Hamlet_ )

Chapter 22

“Why do your plans always involve someone acting insane?” Horatio hissed a few days later, glaring at Hamlet over Ophelia’s head.

“This one was actually her idea,” Hamlet said, nodding down at Ophelia.

Horatio frowned at her. “Why are you encouraging this?

“Because no one in this whole castle gives a damn about me now that my father’s dead,” Ophelia said, with an amount of vehemence that shocked the two Danes, “so now I know they didn’t really care about my father either. They don’t care about anyone. I should have seen it before.” She actually turned a sympathetic eye to Hamlet, who still looked surprised. “When they were ignoring and pushing you away, I should have…” She shook her head and took a deep breath. “Enough. It's time someone had to listen to me for a change.”

“I still don’t get,” Horatio said with a dragged out sigh, “why that involves acting crazy.”

“You’ve seen them,” Ophelia said with narrowed eyes. “No one listens to me. No one ever has. And an insane person, as your…” she blushed a little as she gestured at Hamlet, “whatever-he-is would know, can say anything.” She actually looked a bit vicious as she turned her eyes back out to the king and queen where they stood conversing with some diplomats in one of the larger chambers. “So I’m going to see what sort of guilt I can stir up, see if I can get either the king to confess on his own or get the queen to feel bad enough to turn on him.”

“It’s risky,” Hamlet said.

“It’s diabolical!” Horatio protested.

“They deserve it,” Hamlet retorted.

“And Juliet needs time to search for evidence, which I can buy her,” Ophelia said.

“Which,” Hamlet put in, “I still don’t think will do anything. Claudius is too smart to just leave, what, poison lying around for anyone to find? Labeled ‘use this to murder brother’? Come on.”

“You never know,” Ophelia said, still watching the king and queen. “If I’ve learned anything growing up around royalty my whole life it’s just how untouchable powerful people think they are.”

“Ok, ok,” Horatio said, waving a hand, “political intrigue or not, how do you know they’ll even believe you’re crazy?”

“Well,” Ophelia said, “I’m not exactly doing  _ well _ , am I?”

It was true. She still tended to dissolve into a waterfall of tears if left alone with her thoughts too long. As soon as she’d come up with this plan to wring the hearts of the king and queen, she’d made it a point to let herself cry wherever she happened to be, even if it was around other people, or important people. It helped too that the guards were on their side and had been spreading rumors about her “behavior,” inflating her grief into something that did sound like grounds for her to get committed.

“Just to finalize,” Horatio said, looking with concern at his two mentally-unwell friends, both of whom were watching the king and queen with a kind of predatory joy, “Laertes is on his way and thinks Claudius killed your father, the king still thinks Hamlet actually went to England, and neither of them have any reason to suspect you and I of having done anything?”

“Exactly,” Ophelia said. “So just seem extra concerned about me and lead me away if they ask you to so no one else does. I don’t know who all we can trust.”

“Not reassuring,” Horatio muttered.

“Really, Horatio,” Hamlet said with a grin. “It’s gonna work out.”

“Sure it is.” Horatio rubbed his face. “Can it be stated officially that I don’t like this plan?”

“Noted,” Hamlet said, one corner of his mouth ticking upward.

“Well, off we go then,” Horatio said and followed Ophelia with her armload of flowers and wild hair out into the chamber.

The queen immediately paled as they approached and looked away from Ophelia and toward Horatio, who schooled his face to look sad and worried. The queen wheeled to look at the king. The king, for his part, dispatched the diplomats, just leaving a few servants around the room with them. Horatio noted each of them but mostly kept an eye on Ophelia as she wandered over to look at a painting and swung her bundle of flowers like it was a baby.

“I won’t speak to her,” the queen hissed to the king, spots of pink coming to her cheeks.

Horatio looked at her, keeping his face controlled. She reminded him of Hamlet, actually. The shape of their face, the sculpted cheekbones and expressive dark eyes, the same very dark hair, although the queen’s was very long and streaking through with grey, even done up carefully under her crown. They both seemed to tend toward emotion, expressive features, a buried gentleness. The queen was more in control than her son, and much more given to appropriate conduct and her place as a monarch, but it was still strange to see the similarities between them.

The king, on the other hand, was all grey haired and with a short grey beard over a face that always tended toward sternness even while trying to appear kind. That didn't stop him from being prone to excess, though, if all the parties and drinks just after the wedding were any inclination. It seemed to have calmed now, the castle more tense and more empty the further they moved from the wedding day and the closer Norway loomed. No one said this of course, because one didn't say things to a king, even if he was being wasteful or ignorant. Besides, he was quite good at persuading people to agree with them, at least from what Horatio had encountered in his limited position.

For now, he refused to look at Ophelia at all.

“What does she want?” the queen asked, once more looking at Horatio, eyes pleading.

Horatio swallowed, glancing over at where Ophelia was murmuring to herself and plucking at the flowers in her arms, walking in slow circles around the same bit of floor. She’d started to cry a little again, creating streaks down her unwashed face.

“Your majesty,” Horatio started, looking back at the queen and giving a quick bow and trying to remember to stay calm, “she’s… distressed. She talks about her father, about the state of the world, but she’s insistent about speaking with you.”

The queen looked at him with concern, and he wondered briefly if she’d even noticed he’d been gone, if she even knew who he actually was. It didn’t matter one way or another in the end, but still he folded his hands in front of him and stood still. He looked to Ophelia again, and finally the queen sighed and approached her.

“Ophelia, my dear,” the queen said, keeping a respectful distance, “what are you doing?”

Ophelia turned to her, eyes wet and round. “Where is the beautiful queen of Denmark?” she asked, voice whispy and distant. 

She was a much better actress than he and Hamlet, Horatio noted with a jolt. Even he was a bit disturbed by her performance

Before the queen could answer, Ophelia started to sing, spinning softly with her bundle of flowers and letting her voice rise high and loud. The king now even looked at her, although he stayed on the other side of the room and simply glared. There Horatio saw a bit of Hamlet, something he'd inherited from his father's side.

Once Ophelia broke off, the queen, looking petrified, asked carefully, “My dear, what does this song--”

“No, just listen,” Ophelia snapped, glaring at the queen with an almost animal ferocity. “He is dead and gone, dead and gone now, buried far away, head covered by a stone.” The tears fell harder.

The queen wrung her hands. “Ophelia--”

“No, you listen!” she said, voice rising higher and louder, and even Horatio jerked at the impropriety. He couldn't claim to know Ophelia deeply, but they'd been friends and acquaintances like anyone who hovered in the prince's circle. She'd always been quiet, polite, reserved, and so to see this underneath was… unnerving to say the least. 

After her exclamation, Ophelia simply began another song, something vague and murmuring as she spun again.

The queen looked desperately to the king and jerked her head toward the girl still singing about Saint Valentine. The king frowned but finally approached.

“Pretty Ophelia,” he began in his steady, regal voice, “how are you doing?”

Ophelia stopped and stared at him, and for the first time, she actually looked a bit frightened at this act. But she bit her lip and gave a wobbly curtsey.

“Quite good, very good,” she said, straightening, and her face went hard, “and may God give you what you deserve.”

Horatio jerked again, and without meaning to, glanced toward where he assumed Hamlet was still hiding just outside the door. He couldn’t see him, though, and so he looked at the king again. 

Claudius stared at Ophelia stiffly, looking about to say something. Maybe send her away. Maybe have the guards take her. The king did none of these things.

“My dear girl,” he said through his teeth, “what are you--”

“No, you listen!” she said again, and this time it was nearly to a scream that echoed off the ceiling. She was glaring at the king again, face almost animal. “We know what we are now, but not what we might be!”

No one spoke like that to a king, not even an insane young woman, and that was clear in the flash across the king's face. Horatio approached, touched her shoulders carefully.

“Maybe we should--” he muttered to her, but she shook him off.

“No, no,” she said immediately, “look at my flowers instead.” 

She plucked one weedy thing from the bunch and approached the queen, holding it out. “Rosemary,” she said, smiling, and the queen couldn’t quite return the expression as she accepted the offered plant. “For remembrance, love,” Ophelia said, still smiling, and then she turned back toward Horatio. 

“And how about pansies for you?” she continued, pulling them from the bunch and passing them to the startled young man. “For thought,” she added with an almost wicked smile.

This was a dangerous game, an insane game. And yet no one was approaching Ophelia, no one telling her to stop. Instead, the king and queen simply looked pale, frightened, even a little guilty. The queen held the plant away from herself but couldn’t seem to stop watching Ophelia even as she stepped closer to the king as if he would protect her.

“Hmm…” Ophelia replied, pulling at her bundle again, “how about fennel?” She approached and handed it to the king, who stared at his hand in disgust. “And columbine?” This she passed to the queen. “For adultery. And oh, rue!” she said quickly, plucking it forth and pushing it at the king, eyes bright, “for repentance--God’s mercy on us. I’ll keep some too.” 

She spun once, pulling again at the flower in her hand, but Horatio was watching the king. His face was steely, looking carved from marble, but there was a tick at the side of his jaw. Horatio swallowed once, worried, and looked back at Ophelia.

“Hmm…” she said, “a daisy. For you and your unhappy love.” She passed this to the queen again before turning back to the king, whose jaw continued to tick. “I would give you violets for faithfulness," Ophelia said, stepping close to him, "but those all withered when my father died.”

There was a moment of silent composure before she broke into tears again, hugging the last of the flowers to herself. The king and queen stared, both horrified and pale.

“Horatio,” the queen said, voice high, and he snapped his head up in surprise, “take her away and look after her, won’t you?”

Horatio bowed again. “Of course, your majesty.”

He went to Ophelia quickly, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and began leading her from the room. She continued to cry, and Horatio wasn’t entirely sure if she was acting or not this time. He rubbed her shoulder and kept walking.

“Grief,” the queen whispered, “the horrors of grief. Oh, her father…"

“How long has she been like this?” the king asked, voice low.

But the queen didn’t answer, but shook her head and wrung her hands. “What have we done?”

“Hush,” the king snapped, tossing the flowers he’d been given to the floor, and the queen immediately fell silent. 

By then, Horatio and Ophelia were nearly out of the room, and they heard nothing more.

Hamlet found them a moment later and stared at Ophelia in open amazement and adoration.

“That was…” he began, face breaking into a smile, “masterful.”

Ophelia rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I said those things--could actually say those things!”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Hamlet said, still smiling.

“That was too dangerous,” Horatio said instead. “Ophelia, you basically called the king and queen murderers and adulterers!”

“Well, aren’t they?” Ophelia snapped back, a little of that mad expression coming back to her face. But she took a breath and steadied herself. “At least it looked like it made them feel some things. Maybe the guilt will get to them after all.”

“We can hope,” Hamlet replied, looking a little feral himself.

“But let’s not push it,” Horatio said, pretty sure he needed to worry for all three of them, and at his expression, the others agreed.

“I do think I know what you should do after all this, though,” Hamlet said, giving Ophelia a raise-eyebrow look that made her grin shyly. “You’ve definitely got a career in the theater if anyone has one.”

“Maybe so,” Ophelia said thoughtfully, giving herself a private smile and walked out in front of them.

Her back as she walked was straighter than they’d seen in a while, head raised and wild hair cascading around her shoulders. Horatio shook his head, still nervous but having to admit that it was good to see Ophelia looking so much more confident. He glanced sideways at Hamlet and then held out the flower he’d been given.

“Pansy for your thoughts?” Horatio offered, smiling a little.

Hamlet laughed. “Like I need more of those.”

Chapter 23

In all different plays, characters were settling into the new lives they'd ended up in or finally returning to their now, sometimes altered, stories. Beatrice and Benedick found themselves reunited with Hero and Claudio, glad to see that they’d worked it out. Othello continued to respect and treasure Desdemona. Puck found his way back to the forest and the fairy king and queen unintentionally, but even he had to admit that it wasn’t so bad being back home. The Montagues and Capulets, their children seemingly vanished into thin air, began to reconcile the feud they’d been having. 

The stories continued. The characters lived, navigated, loved and lost. 

In Denmark, much of the same was also true.

Juliet had found poison in the king's chamber, and that only spurred on the group’s desire to have Claudius face justice in one way or another. 

Ophelia couldn’t look at Romeo without bursting into tears, which was causing her to recede into herself again, pulled further and further away from the ground. Of course, her extreme response was making a similar response in Romeo, who still clung to Juliet like she was his only lifeline in the world. 

Laertes’ ship had come into harbor, and he was apparently rallying the people of Denmark against the king, at least according to the watch of the guards. The castle, and really, the country was tense with the strain and the held breath before the coming conflict.

No one knew quite how to proceed. Yet the days still passed.

Hamlet still had nightmares about his family and the burden of revenge, especially now that he knew the truth of it. Claudius was a villain and needed to pay; King Hamlet needed to be avenged. Hamlet told himself that they would find another way, some form of justice without bloodshed, without death, but still it hung on him that he was the one who’d been called to revenge, was meant to kill the usurper. 

It was like a chain around his neck, one he couldn’t seem to lift off.

Horatio had been sleeping in his own room again, and so when Hamlet woke up in the night shaking and terrified, there was nowhere to turn to now. So he went back to his old habit: wandering the castle in the dark of night hoping for sleep. Every so often, he hesitated in front of Horatio’s door, wondering if he could go in and snuggle himself up against the other man like they had in those previous stories. If maybe he could breathe in the smell of him, match his breath to Horatio’s, feel that solid, gentle hand on his head, and then maybe he’d be ok again. He almost knocked, almost went in unannounced.

But with a door between them, the whole of Denmark caged around them again, it felt wrong somehow. Like he was asking too much, needing too much. He couldn’t burden Horatio with this. Hamlet didn’t deserve it.

So he walked, haunted and tired and aching.

It was in one of these dazed wandering just before sunrise that a few of the servants saw him. Of course, they were surprised considering 1) Hamlet hadn’t looked like himself in the last few weeks, and 2) he was supposed to be in England. But they knew the prince when they saw him, even in his strange, mad state, and so they reported his presence to the king and queen.

It was early in the morning, and Hamlet hadn’t slept, when his mother appeared in his doorway.

“So it’s true,” she said, without introduction. “You’ve returned from England.”

Hamlet startled at her voice but turned, composing his face again. He was exhausted, harried, all his nerves seeming about to burst under his skin. Seeing her face again, the careful sculpt of her skin and hair, her regal clothing, her proud bearings as she looked in at him, it did something to that pain in his sternum again. He knew how he must look, ragged and made of right-angles with bags under his eyes and sweat in his hair. The anger burned up his throat, seeing her there, completely unchanged after all of this. As distant and majestic as any other monarch. 

He gave a deep, mocking bow. 

“I never left, your majesty,” he replied as he straightened.

She watched him, expressions flickering across her face, and finally her lips thinned.

“Do you… know me?” she asked.

Hamlet bowed again. “Of course, your majesty. You’re the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife.” It came out sneered, less controlled than he’d meant it too, but he was frayed with the tiredness, with the burden of revenge, the ache in his sternum at full power.

A flash of pain went across the queen’s face at his words before it returned to regal smoothness.

“And…” Hamlet said with a sigh, “whether I like it or not, you are my mother.”

There was a tense moment between them, these two with their similar features and different bearings.

At last, the queen sighed. “Your… friend, Ophelia. Have you talked to her?”

“Yes, poor Ophelia,” Hamlet said, not breaking eye contact. “It’s terrible what grief and neglect will do to a person, isn’t it? How it feels to lose a father?”

He could almost taste the bitterness on his tongue, but he couldn’t stop himself, even at his mother’s change of expression, the regal mask faltering.

“Maybe she should just marry, find herself a replacement right away. Right?” Hamlet continued, and the queen’s mouth opened and shut abruptly. “That’s the way to deal with grief, isn’t it, your majesty? What’s love matter? What’s family matter?” He gave an elaborate shrug. “Just move on.”

The queen’s eyes were bright and glassy with unshed tears. “Hamlet, please--”

“No!” Hamlet snapped, and his skin was itchy and strange with anxiety. “No--why did you do this? Why would you give up my dad, who loved you--loved  _ us _ so much--for  _ that _ ?” He could hear the tears in the back of his throat, choking his words, as he jabbed at the wall.

“Hamlet…”

“Did you do it--did you know?” he demanded, stepping toward her and grabbing her by both arms. She gasped and yanked at his grasp, a few tears falling as he continued to stare down into her face. “Did you know he killed my father? Did you help him? _Answer_ _me!_ ”

“Hamlet, please!” the queen yelped, ripping herself from his hands. “How could you say these things to me? How could you  _ think _ that about me? How could you think that about your  _ uncle _ !”

“How can you  _ not _ ?” Hamlet yelled, grabbing her arm to keep her from leaving. “Can you be that blind? Can you be that selfish? How can you--”

People were starting to gather in the hallway at the yelling, guards and the people nearest by looking in, wondering if they ought to intervene, what anyone did when the queen and the prince were screaming at each other like children. They knew the prince had gone mad, but this was something new entirely. Horatio heard some of the hubbub from his own room and approached, already on edge.

Once he caught sight of what was going on, Horatio pushed through the crowd, past the queen, and into the room. Neither seemed to notice him at first, so he caught hold of Hamlet’s arm and dragged him back. The prince glared at Horatio in fury, but the other man refused to flinch under his fiery gaze or think about the twist of nerves in his gut at the wild, sleep-deprived look in his face.

“Your majesty,” Horatio said, still looking at Hamlet but ducking his head toward the queen, “he’s clearly insane and doesn't know what he’s saying.”

Hamlet whirled back toward his mother, trying to pull himself out of Horatio’s grip, but the other man wrapped an arm around his chest and held him back.

“You know it’s true!” Hamlet shouted at her as she began to back through the door, and he jabbed wildly with his free hand. “You know the guilt you feel! You know what kind of snake Claudius really is!”

“My lord,” Horatio whispered, voice low and dark, “stop it. This isn’t helping anything.”

Hamlet glared at him again but managed to take a breath. The queen, at the quiet questions of the guards, gave him one last look over her shoulder and then allowed herself to be escorted away. At that, the handful of onlookers dispersed as well after a few concerned glances through the door, and then finally, it was just Hamlet panting against Horatio as the other man continued to hold him firm.

“If I let go,” Horatio asked quietly, “will you act like a human instead of a deranged animal?”

Hamlet twitched in his grip a moment, but finally let out a breath and nodded. Horatio slowly undid his arms and stepped back, glaring at the prince, who took another, slower breath, and looked over at him.

“What,” Horatio asked in the same quiet, unwavering voice, “the  _ fuck  _ was that?”

Startled since Horatio wasn’t really the “salty language” sort of guy, Hamlet actually took a moment to think about what he’d just done and why.

Did he feel those things? Of course. Would he have liked to ask his mom about them? Sure. Was he right to have said what he’d said? Maybe. Should he have done it by attacking and screaming at her at the crack of dawn after they hadn’t seen each other in weeks?

Yeah, probably not.

Horatio was still looking at him a bit like an irritated teacher, and Hamlet covered his face with his hands.

There was a commotion outside and downstairs that both distantly registered, but neither one did anything about it except for Horatio walking slowly over to shut the door and lean back against it. Hamlet hadn’t moved, still covering his face and trying to breathe and pushing down the urge to cry.

Everything hurt. The world was too much. His own body was a prison he couldn’t escape from. Even breathing stung his chest, made his eyes burn.

Horatio sighed, the anger going out of him immediately. “Are you ok?”

Hamlet laughed hollowly and didn’t lift his head. “When am I ever?” he muttered to his hands.

“But this, this morning…” Horatio began, not sure where he was going.

Hamlet finally lifted his face to look at him, eyes bright. “I’m not sleeping.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Horatio replied, wishing either of them was braver, that Hamlet would have asked for help, that he would have sought Hamlet out more when he saw how frazzled and withdrawn he was getting again.

And yet Horatio pushed that down and took a deep breath.“That’s still not an excuse for going completely feral on your mother.”

Hamlet gave another hollow laugh and finally dropped his hands. “I know.”

“So?” Horatio said, as patient as ever.

“I just saw her again, after all this time, and I just… lost it.” Hamlet rubbed hard at his eyes.

“I’ll say,” Horatio said, crossing his arms over his chest, “although if you were trying to keep up your whole “mad prince” act, this probably sealed the deal.”

Hamlet moved to sit back on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his face back in his hands. “Don’t know if I was,” he mumbled. He ran his hands backwards through his hair. “I don’t have any sort of plan anymore. I'm…" he gave a heavy sigh, "running out."

Horatio sat down beside him. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’d love for the walls to melt right now,” Hamlet offered, looking up at the too-familiar ceiling.

“Yeah,” Horatio echoed, smiling faintly, “yeah, I wouldn’t mind that either. Get away again. It wasn’t so bad.”

“No,” Hamlet said, looking over at him. He remembered the church foyer, remembered being tucked up together at night. “No, it wasn’t.”

“But,” Horatio replied, “if we’re stuck here, then we have to deal with being here. We have to live in it, just like we were doing before.”

“Before was  _ terrible _ .” Hamlet rubbed at the middle of his chest.

“Yeah, I know,” Horatio continued, “but just because we’re back here doesn’t mean we still have to be the same people we were before, do the same things we’d do back then.”

Hamlet nodded, only half believing that was possible, and finally allowed himself to lean into Horatio’s shoulder, rest his head against the other man’s. Horatio lay a hand on his thigh, glad for the solid shape of him, for a bit of the real Hamlet to be emerging again.

“I’m sorry,” Hamlet whispered.

Horatio pressed a fleeting kiss to the prince’s forehead. “I’d much rather hear you say ‘Horatio, I won’t do it again’,” he said with a grin, hoping the lightness he was going for came through.

Hamlet lifted his head to look him in the eye. “Horatio, I won’t do it again,” he said, giving a weak smile.

“Better,” Horatio replied as Hamlet settled back against his side again. He wrapped an arm around the prince’s shoulders, pulling the taller man a bit awkwardly into his chest, but neither seemed to mind. In fact, Hamlet sighed into him and seemed to relax a little more. 

They sat together a while as the noises in the rest of the castle quieted, and both thought of things they could say but neither voiced them. The commotion could be the king, could be Laertes, could be the guard. For a moment, it all seemed far away.

“Let’s just leave now,” Horatio said carefully, rubbing a hand up and down the prince’s arm, “just grab Juliet and Romeo and maybe Ophelia too and just leave. Just let it all go.”

Hamlet shook his head even while pressing it into Horatio’s shoulders. “Then the nightmares’ll never stop. It'll always be there."

Horatio rubbed his arm again and wondered what "it" was but didn't ask. He was here right now. He was stable. That was victory enough for now.

"I’ll always know that Claudius won," Hamlet muttered, "and my dad was never avenged and that I’m a shitty son and prince and… person.”

Horatio raised his head in surprise, sputtering some protest that didn't quite come out as words. 

“This has to end, one way or another,” Hamlet said, still not moving from against his side. His voice was resigned and distant, even while pressed up into Horatio, and the other man squeezed him closer, stomach twisted with foreboding. 

Horatio was about to respond when the door flew open and a frazzled looking Juliet thrust her head inside. 

“Ophelia’s gone,” she said immediately, looking between the two startled Dane. “Left a note and just disappeared.” Before either man could respond to this, she added, turning a bit pale, “And now her brother’s here and he’s… demanding to see you, Hamlet.”

Chapter 24

Horatio was drinking.

In the face of everything, it was all he could really bring himself to do.

They'd gone down together, Juliet and Romeo in tow, to see Laertes with some vain and foolish hope that the plan had worked and he would stand with them against the king. 

They should have known Claudius was too clever for that.

"Here is your father's killer," the king announced calmly as Hamlet entered the throne room.

Laertes shared some features with his sister but none of her delicacies. He was muscular and powerful and nearly vibrating with fury as he turned to look at them, and neither Ophelia's blonde hair or round eyes did anything to soften him. He held up a sword toward Hamlet as the prince walked calmly to the middle of the room flanked by his friend.

"Give me my father," Laertes demanded.

Hamlet, much calmer than Horatio would have anticipated, simply answered, "I can't."

The king looked on impassively, and the queen still looked slightly shaken from the conversation earlier. But Hamlet held himself steady, strangely calm in the face of such rage, and that was unsettling for Horatio was well. Somehow he would have preferred him frantic, erratic, talking and gesturing and arguing.

Maybe he was being smart for once, being reasonable, but it looked more like acceptance of his fate.

Romeo shifted in place next to Juliet, and she squeezed his hand.

"Then agree to pay for what you've done," Laertes growled.

Hamlet took a deep breath. "What do you propose, my friend? How can I make up to you what I've done?"

Romeo stepped forward, bringing everyone's eyes to him.

"I was the one who--" he began, but Hamlet clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't mind my friend here," Hamlet announced loudly before bending to mutter to Romeo. "This is complicated enough without throwing in the whole melting walls thing."

Romeo swallowed hard. "But it's my fault and I should--"

"You," Hamlet hissed, "are some random foreigner and they'd eat you alive.” He sighed. “Me, I might have some chance in hell. All of this comes back to me anyway, whoever actually did the stabbing. So leave it."

He patted Romeo roughly on the shoulder again and looked back at Laertes. But the other man's eyes, and the queen's, were on Romeo as he stepped back.

"Weird friends you're keeping," Laertes said, looking back at Hamlet with narrowed eyes.

Hamlet shrugged. "Don't mind them." He put his hands in his pockets. "How can we settle this?"

"What new form of madness is this?" the queen asked almost to herself as she watched her son.

Hamlet gave a hollow sort of laugh. "You know I'm only mad north-northwest. But I think it's time for things to be settled." He looked briefly between Laertes and the king's slightly smug face, which he immediately covered over when he realized he was being watched. Hamlet raised an eyebrow. "I'm assuming you've spoken to the king then?

Laertes' eyes narrowed again. "Why?"

"Just asking," Hamlet said, shrugging again. The bags under his eyes and heaviness of the lids was getting more apparent the longer they talked. "Probably wanna make sure you're punishing the right person's all."

Laertes jabbed with his sword again. "I know who the right person is! Now will you accept my terms or not?"

"I don't know what they are," Hamlet replied, sounding tired.

"A duel tomorrow morning, so I can prove my honor in being willing to fight the murderer of my father," Laertes announced. "Swords and traditional rules."

Horatio's stomach dropped.

Hamlet's eyebrows pulled together. "And that'd be enough for you?"

Laertes glared. "I've been... counseled by the king that this is the right thing to do, and that an execution of the crown prince would only create more problems with the enemies of Denmark."

"Well, how very thoughtful of the king," Hamlet said, a sneer slipping back into his voice. "A duel it is." He extended his hand to Laertes.

As they shook, Horatio couldn't stand it anymore and left the room. Juliet, after a quick glance back at Hamlet, hurried after him.

She caught Horatio's arm as he walked, hardly seeing where he was going.

"Horat--" she began.

"He'll die," Horatio said, feeling the bile in his throat. "It's a ploy. Somehow, the king's going to kill him and use Laertes to do it." He rubbed his face. "The opposite of what we hoped."

"You don't--" Juliet said quickly, "you don't know that! Maybe this will work. You know how crazy royalty is and maybe--"

"No," Horatio replied. "I've watched this family long enough to know. And Hamlet's given up."

Juliet tried to follow that but couldn't.

"He's eaten up by his darkness, pain, whatever you want to call it, and he must think this is the only way, that it's inevitable. He's just… accepted his fate," Horatio said.

"But…" Juliet bit her lip and kept up her almost-jog to stay apace, "he never did that in the other stories! He was always finding ways around and out of things!"

"But this is Denmark," Horatio replied, hands balling into fists, "and Denmark's a prison."

So he'd settled himself back in his room with a bottle of wine and drank slowly and steadily as the sun poured through the window. Juliet had tried to say something about fixing it, doing something, but he'd barely heard. He just swigged from the bottle and tried not to think at all anymore, and certainly not of his skinny prince.

Juliet was not one for giving up, either in Hamlet's accepting way or Horatio's abject one. She had to believe the best in people, had to believe there were ways to fix things, and so she left Romeo in their shared room and set forth.

It took a bit of asking around to find the queen, but once she had, Juliet steeled up her nerves and knocked on the chamber door.

The queen opened the door a fraction and looked down at Juliet in surprise. The girl dipped into the best and politest curtsey she could manage before straightening.

"Your majesty," she began, "I want to beg just a moment of your time."

The queen opened the door a little wider and looked out into the empty hallway.

"Who are you, child?" the queen asked, and Juliet curtseyed again.

"I'm a friend of your son's," she replied. "And really, I just want a moment to talk to you."

The queen hesitated, her royal bearings flickering a moment, but at last she pulled the door open and allowed Juliet inside.

Most of the day had passed by the time Hamlet finally went looking for Horatio. At first, he'd assumed he was just with Juliet, or maybe with the guards, and Hamlet had continued his preparations for the duel with a vague detachment. But once everything was settled (Romeo would be his second, out of a sense of guilt and a desire for action; there would be an official judge along with an audience including the king and queen), it started feeling strange to turn around and not see Horatio there. It took a bit of snooping until he finally knocked and popped his head into Horatio's room.

"There you are," Hamlet said stepping inside and shaking out the letter he held. "Ophelia just ran off with a theater company! Can you believe it? Just decided not to wait for her brother and just struck out on her own! I can't believe she was so…"

At last, he finally looked up from the note and really stared at his friend, any words fizzling out as he did so.

Horatio was sitting back on his bed, legs sprawled in front of him, with a bottle of nearly empty wine held loosely in one hand. He's apparently adopted the lazy t-shirt and jeans look, and it was looking extra lazy with the slight stubble on his jaw and the loose rumple of his hair. He was watching Hamlet with a mingled fondness and sadness that made the prince ache, and Hamlet set the note on a side table and approached.

"You're," he said, sitting on the bed near Horatio's feet and trying to keep his voice light, "really starting early with the wine, huh?"

He reached for the bottle, and Horatio let him have it, the fading gold sun of late afternoon glinting off the bottle. 

"You're gonna lose," Horatio said, voice cracking, running a hand over his face.

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for your vote of confidence."

Horatio shook his head. "No, they'll make sure you lose. I can feel it. You know what the king…" He gestured vaguely, head foggy with drinking and worry and everything else he’d been burying, and couldn't figure out how to finish. At some point not long ago he'd stumbled over into "tipsy" and wasn't sure how exactly he got there, and now all his thoughts and feeling felt like they were floating along on a pond, right on the surface but slightly out of reach.

Hamlet sighed and set the wine bottle on the floor out of reach. "Who knows what's gonna happen?" he offered with a half-hearted shrug. "Whatever's gonna happen, will, I guess. It's all just… set, and we have to play our parts."

It took Horatio's brain a moment to process that but once he did, he surged forward and caught Hamlet's shirt with both fists and dragged him forward. Hamlet yelped at the sudden jerk that brought them face to face, as well as the sudden snap of anger in Horatio’s usually controlled expression.

"No," Horatio snapped, "that's bullshit and you know it." His eyes were large and bright, face carved up with emotion "Did you just kill yourself when you were supposed to be Romeo? Or let Desdemona die? Or accept your fate in Scotland, or Greece, or anywhere else? No!" 

His voice had gone loud, but Hamlet was staring at him with wide eyes. For once, the prince could find no words. This was a different version of his friend, one with all the politeness and propriety somehow stripped aside. Just two men with no conventions between them.

Hamlet reached out and lay a hand on Horatio’s thigh, but whether to steady himself or the other man, he wasn’t sure.

"No," Horatio said again, and his eyes were burning with tears that wanted to fall, all the anguish from the day roaring to the surface, "no, it's only in Denmark you accept your fate, give up on everything." 

He ducked his head as the first tears fell, hands still knotted in Hamlet's shirt, unable to look at him and ashamed to be crying. Wine-fuzzy and dramatic and crying. It was humiliating and yet he couldn't stop, couldn't compose himself. Not here, not playing this part, not looking at the prince’s shocked and confused face, those dark eyes and long lashes and the loose line of his mouth. He set his forehead against Hamlet’s collarbone and held tight.

The prince reached out carefully, running a hand over Horatio's arm, over his side, but the other man didn't react.

"Yell, or fight, or swear, or storm around the castle," Horatio whispered into the body before him. "Pace and rail at the world and throw things. I can do that. I can support that. I’ll support you through any of that just like I always have. Just don't…" His voice broke again but he forced out the words: "Don't leave me here alone. I don't have anyone but you."

Hamlet made a wounded noise and moved to encircle Horatio in his arms, even while the other man clung to his shirt and tucked his head into his shoulder. The tears fell more steadily, hot and salty and painful, but Horatio let them and simply hung on. He wasn’t lying, not really. He didn’t really have any family, any permanent home. He had acquaintances in school, but he was too reserved to let anyone get terribly close and only Hamlet, with his noise and his emotions and his persistence had carved his way into his heart and his life. And without him…

But if he had hold of him now, then Hamlet was still here, was still alive, and couldn’t leave him. He tucked his head harder against him.

"Horatio…" Hamlet murmured, kissing the top of his head.

"Only talk," Horatio heard himself say, "if you're going to tell me you haven't given up, that you won't just accept your fate."

Hamlet kissed his head again, held on to him, body wrapped around the other man as much as possible. 

"I…" Hamlet said, and his chest hurt and his body felt wrung out like a rag. "I don't know if I can…"

Horatio felt it like a stab in his gut and felt the tears fall again, and he squeezed into the prince's shirt once more before moving to grab his hands instead. Hamlet looked down in surprise at Horatio's nearly white-knuckled grip. Horatio shifted, slid hard to his knees on the floor in front of the other man, hands still clinging, tears slowing as he resolved. He pressed those joined hands into his forehead, to his lips, as Hamlet watched and couldn't move. Horatio didn’t care anymore about his composure, about being logical. He’d be penitent, a begging servant, if that’s what it took.

Hamlet wanted to tell Horatio to get up, to not kneel, to not treat him like a prince, to not subjugate himself to someone as unworthy as himself. He didn’t deserve it, not this, and he’d always seen Horatio as better than himself anyway, station or not.

But Horatio spoke first, lips still on his hands. "Then if you die, I'll follow you." He looked up, sharp eyed, at the startled prince. "I’ve always been more an ancient Roman than a Dane anyway, and to be with you--to stay with you, I'd do anything."

He kissed the prince's hands again as Hamlet tried to get words past the lump in his throat.

"Horatio, you have to live," he finally managed brokenly.

"Not without you," Horatio said, bringing his hands to his face again, dampening them with the tears drying there. "I can't. I won't." 

“Horatio…” Hamlet started again, feeling the tears welling in his own eyes too. He shook their joined hands, tried to pull the other man to his feet, but Horatio held firm on his knees. Instead, he shook his head. 

"If you ever really did hold me in your heart," he said finally, meeting the prince's eyes again, "then you'll stay alive for me. Even if for nothing else. Just for me."

A few tears slid down Hamlet's cheeks too as he looked down at Horatio's face, so uncontrolled, wracked with feeling, so resolute. 

Hamlet, for all his flaws, knew truth when he saw it.

Even though his body still ached, his thoughts were surprisingly clear. He shifted to slide to the floor too, kneeling in front of Horatio now who moved to give him space but keep their hands joined. Hamlet brought one of Horatio's hands to his lips and then the other, watching him the whole time.

"For you," he said softly, "I'd do anything."

Horatio stared back at him. 

"I don't think there's a way out of the duel that makes everyone happy and appeases Laertes," Hamlet said, but added quickly as Horatio began to argue, "but I won't just give up and let him kill me, and I'll keep an eye on the king. We’ll make sure this duel is the end of it.” His voice was firm. “And then we’ll leave," he finished, kissing Horatio’s hand again, “just like you said. And it’ll…” The ache was still in his chest, but he pushed it down and nodded. “It’ll all be ok.” 

Horatio watched him, heart and mind warring as he saw the darkness move across Hamlet’s face.

"I will tell you every day to stay alive for me if it will keep you here, help you at all," he whispered, watching the pain flash in the prince's eyes. "I won't lose you. Not to this."

It hurt to think about it, Horatio as his only tether against the pain and darkness, the morbid voice in his head, the nightmares and the insomnia. It was too much a burden to bear, especially for someone as good as him.

"I can't… ask you to do that," Hamlet breathed. He shook his head, looking down. "It's too much, too difficult, too painful to put on you."

"You didn't ask," Horatio said, the solidness continuing in his voice. "I offered."

Hamlet smiled sadly. "It's a shit job."

Horatio gave a more genuine smile. "Not to me. Not if it's you."

The prince's smile broadened even as another tear slid down his cheek. "Euripides."

"We were in the class together," Horatio said.

"We were," Hamlet replied. “The semester after we met.”

"Even back then it made me think of you," Horatio confessed in a way he hadn't meant to. With Hamlet here, agreeing to keep surviving, he felt raw in a way that made him feel bold, and he didn't mind letting it happen. “That being there, taking care of you was a job I’d always be willing to take, if you’d ever let me.”

"Jesus," Hamlet said, voice breaking, "I don't deserve you." He pressed their joined hands to his eyes a moment, trying to breathe. “I can’t--I can’t ever make it up to you.”

"I don't care," Horatio said with a great deal of feeling, and then he was surging forward again to take hold of the prince, but this time it was to kiss him with an almost savage passion.

Hamlet, face still salty, returned it.

They remained that way until Hamlet said, smiling crookedly, "You taste like wine."

"Yeah well…" Horatio said, coloring slightly. "I may not have handled this in the best way."

Hamlet shrugged and kissed him again, hands stroked up into his hair. Even looking a bit worse for wear, Horatio was still handsome, solid, beautiful in his way, his hazel eyes lit by the sun as it began to set behind the window. He was everything right in Hamlet’s world. He stroked his cheek, the slight roughness under his fingertips.

"Can I…" he ventured a moment later, "stay here with you tonight?"

Horatio blinked at him. "You mean…"

"Whatever you want it to mean," Hamlet replied, blushing. "I just--I…" Forcing down those dark thoughts that tried to crawl back up, he finished, "I need you near me, if you don’t mind."

There was a beat of nerves and Horatio’s heart giving a wild thump in his chest before he smiled.

“If you do something for me,” Horatio said, and Hamlet’s eyebrows rose.

“What’s that?” the prince asked.

Horatio smiled twitched. “I need another, ‘Horatio, I won’t do it again’--for this defeatist, scared-the-hell-out-of-me, thing.”

Laughing, Hamlet leaned forward and kissed him, but he sobered before he spoke. “Fine. Horatio, I won’t do it again.”

"Then yes, please stay," Horatio said, still grinning even while his heart beat too quickly in his chest, "Hamlet."

The prince laughed. "Ooh, say it again."

"Hamlet," Horatio said with a light laugh and kissed the prince's inner wrist, feeling the silken skin there, the faint pulse of blood still flowing. "Hamlet," he said, and kissed just above the necklines of his shirt, in the juncture of neck and shoulder. "Hamlet," he said, and found his mouth again.


	8. Part 8 - The Rest is Silence

**Part 8:** The royal tension in Denmark comes to a head, and Hamlet must make a final choice about whether or not to take his revenge and just what it might mean for his friends if he does. ( _ Hamlet _ )

Chapter 25

Although Romeo had his arms around her, sleeping comfortable with her tucked against the curve of his body, Juliet couldn't sleep. And it wasn't like her. She fell asleep easily, soundly, especially with Romeo near her again. But tonight, she stared into the dark of the room and couldn't seem to close her eyes.

She'd heard about the duel, of course, and Romeo's role in it, and although it seemed like a lot of "males wagging their symbolic phalluses around," it could have ended worse. From her understanding, it was hard for someone to get badly hurt in a fight like this. And at least she'd seen Hamlet fight and knew he was capable enough, and Romeo she knew was perfectly handy with a sword when he had to be.

So why was she still so worried?

She lay there, listening to Romeo breathe, and tried to figure it out. In a weird way, she wished she could find Horatio and ask him, because he was usually the useful combination of worried and logical. But she hadn't seen him all day and wasn't about to go and wake him up right now. 

He'd left as soon as the duel had been settled, looking panicked, but Juliet had stayed and watched the rest of it be set. She didn't entirely like how invested the king seemed in this whole thing, since it didn't actually involve him at all--

Juliet sat up abruptly, jerking out from under Romeo’s arm. He shifted, muttering something she ignored as her own brain spun.

The king. The poison. It had to be connected somehow.

She was up and pulling on shoes and throwing a sweater over her night dress before she really thought about what she was doing. What was she doing? She wasn't some sort of spy or really anyone with any specific importance. She could be entirely wrong and creeping around in the dead of night for no reason.

Besides, she'd already done all she could by talking to the queen and warning her about Claudius. Admittedly, the queen hadn't been entirely receptive to what she'd had to say and demanded a lot more concrete proof than Juliet actually had. But she hadn't thrown her out of the room or had her arrested either, so maybe that was something. And for all the queen’s faults (and all  _ his _ faults, Juliet thought with a grunt), she did seem to love her son. So that was hopefully something too.

She could go back to bed. Know she'd tried, leave it to more powerful people to sort it out.

Even as she thought it, she knew that wasn't her. If it was, she wouldn't have Romeo and she wouldn't be here. She’d be demurely nodding to whatever her parents said. She'd be married to that oaf Paris and spending her days alone in a big house embroidering and being bored out of her skull. She’d be proper and respectful and loveless and devoid of adventure.

She opened the door quietly to let Romeo keep sleeping, and set out into the dark of the halls.

The plan she was forming was risky and maybe stupid, but if the Danes had taught her anything, sometimes risky and stupid was the only way to go.

She knew there was a court physician and knew vaguely where he was, and she was hoping he wouldn't be terribly offended to be woken up at night. He was a doctor after all, right? And she  _ definitely  _ needed some medical help.

Well, first medical help, and then the stealth of a cat, and then maybe a miracle. But one step at a time.

Chapter 26

For once, Hamlet had no nightmares.

Maybe it was the presence of Horatio soundly sleeping near him, or maybe it was the warm feel of his bare skin under his hands and along his body, or the tangle of their limbs still unwilling to part, or the terrifying and wonderful newness of what they’d done before curling up and falling asleep. Maybe it was all of it together.

Regardless, Hamlet slept and didn’t dream and woke up slowly to Horatio’s bare chest under his cheek and his slow, rhythmic breathing in his ear. He shifted to look at him, Horatio stretched out on his back, one arm loosely thrown around Hamlet’s shoulders even in sleep, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. He was peaceful and soft and solid all at once, the smooth plains of his skin lit by the morning sunlight, creating hatch marks of lightness and shadow. Hamlet smiled, ran a fingertip along his cheek, down to the smooth line of his sternum, and Horatio smiled a little and blinked open an eye.

“Good morning,” Horatio mumbled, rolling to face him. He shifted to be sure the prince still stayed in the circle of his arms, smiling softly, even if side by side, Hamlet was a bit too long for that.

"Good morning," Hamlet replied, cupping his face. "I didn't thrash around and disturb you too much in the night, did I?"

Horatio grinned. "I didn't notice a thing." His face grew more serious. "Nightmares? I don't remember you waking me up."

"I didn't," Hamlet said, and let himself breathe the words like a prayer, like a strange buoyancy in his chest. "No nightmares."

Horatio smiled, sleepily nuzzled up against the prince. "Good. You're staying with me then."

"Oh, am I now?" Hamlet teased, running a hand over the bare curve of Horatio's shoulder.

"You are," Horatio said, smirking slightly up at him. "Like you said last night, you need me."

Hamlet snorted and tucked one of his legs between Horatio's. "That was said under duress."

"Hmm, of course it was," Horatio grunted back with a grin.

"You were begging me," Hamlet said, smiling cheekily.

"There was no  _ begging _ ," Horatio grumbled, nestling his face into the pillow again. "I simply… persuaded you. Excellent use of pathos and ethos."

"Pathos and ethos," Hamlet grunted back, shoving to roll himself on top of the other man and glare down at him. 

Horatio let him, pleased with the lithe weight of the other man on top of him, their legs slotted and bellies pressed together..

"What about my  _ persuading _ ?" Hamlet said, licking along one lip.

Horatio chuckled. "Yes, you were very  _ persuasive _ . Loud, but persuasive."

Hamlet blushed. "I did get a little loud." He propped an elbow up beside Horatio's head, leaning on his hand to look down at the other man.

"Not surprising," Horatio replied, grinning again. "You're the talker between the two of us."

"That's true," Hamlet replied, trailing a few fingers through Horatio's hair. "Still, the debate seemed to end… satisfactorily for everyone involved."

Horatio laughed. "That's true. You're still here, aren't you?"

"I'm still here," Hamlet replied, continuing to stroke through the other man's hair. His eyes grew a bit distant as he added, "I have to duel with Laertes this morning."

Without thinking, Horatio wrapped a hand around Hamlet's waist. "Right."

"I don't know what'll happen," Hamlet admitted, looking down at Horatio. "If this will really end it or not…"

"But you're gonna try," Horatio finished, running his hand over the prince's skin. "And I'll have your back."

"Will you?" Hamlet asked.

"When do I not?" Horatio replied, rubbing into the hand on his head. "Now kiss me again, you idiot, before we have to get out of this bed."

Hamlet gasped, mock offended. "That's no way to talk to a prince."

"You're right," Horatio replied and cleared his throat. "If it would please you, my lord, to give a kiss to your humble servant, he'd be much obliged."

Hamlet cackled and dropped his head against Horatio's shoulder. "That's horrible. Don't ever say that again."

"You asked for it," Horatio teased, kissing just under his ear.

"Then call me something else," Hamlet said, raising his head again, "and let me kiss you before I have to go and fight."

That sobered Horatio, who reached up to stroke the prince's face. "Hamlet," he said warmly, " _ my  _ Hamlet, please be safe."

"From now on, my love," Hamlet responded and kissed him again.

It still took a bit of time to actually force themselves to untangle from the bed and each other, and a bit longer to track down clothes again, and a bit more after that for Hamlet to convince and promise Horatio he wouldn't let himself be killed if at all possible. By that point, someone was knocking on the door and then letting themselves in, but at least the two Danes were decent and standing a respectable distance apart.

It was Osric, one of the more brightly colored and sycophantic of the courtiers, who opened the door and bowed dramatically. Hamlet rolled his eyes.

"The court and your opponent Laertes await you in the ballroom," he said, with another flourishing bow. 

"Great," Hamlet replied, smoothing down the front of his shirt, "and they can wait a little longer."

Osric sputtered at him before collecting himself. "The king himself wanted me to escort you, my lord."

"Making sure I don't make a break for it?" Hamlet said to Horatio with a raised eyebrow. "Or a deep fatherly concern?"

Horatio snorted.

“My lord,” Osric said, giving another bow, “I’m sure the king only--”

"Go tell my dear uncle,” Hamlet said, cutting him off, “that I am, of course, devoted to making his every wish come true and being at his beck and call.” Hamlet gave a bit of a flourishing bow himself. "No go away."

Osric sputtered again. "But--my lord--"

"Are you sure we can't just leave?" Horatio muttered. “The people in this castle are--”

“The worst, I agree,” Hamlet said loudly, looking at Osric again, who was still trying to stay collected, “but unfortunately no. Let’s get this over with.

Hamlet finally gestured for Osric to go out the door in front of them, and the two younger men followed.

Chapter 27

The ballroom had an audience of courtiers arranged on chairs off to one side, and the king and queen were in their thrones at the head of the room, crowns on their heads and faces as calm and inscrutable as any statue. Horatio, for all he'd been friends with a prince for a while, was still intimidated by the sight of the actual royalty and courtiers of Denmark in all their finery and in the massive, lit chamber. The clothing remained inconsistent, the nobles in gowns and doublets, suits and dresses, feathered hats and perfectly coiffed hair pieces. Somehow still, other than the king and queen, all the courtiers looked the same, a sea of wealth and color, and Horatio couldn't have named any of them even if he'd been forced to.

Hamlet, who'd been forced since birth to memorize every name and title, wouldn't have named them out of sheer spite.

Juliet and Romeo had followed them down from the upstairs rooms and were now looking around with obvious nerves, intimidated like Horatio by the sheer decadence of the ballroom. Juliet looked to the queen for just a moment, face unreadable, and the queen returned her gaze, face going briefly sad. Romeo stepped next to Hamlet, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the fight. Hamlet gave him a nod before looking toward his opponent.

Laertes was just in front of the thrones, dressed in the all-white fencing costume with a foil already in his hand, face serious. He gave Hamlet a terse, slight bow, limbs stiff, and then waited. Hamlet returned the bow, in the same measured respectful distance, and approached the fencing master for his own costume and foil, Romeo on his heels.

“Thank you for finally joining us, son,” the king said, tone just bordering on irritated.

Hamlet turned and gave him a bow as well, although it was no more respectful than the one he'd given Laertes, and the king clearly knew this. Then Hamlet turned to the fencing master and began getting fitted with his gear. Laertes and his second, a large man neither Hamlet or Horatio recognized, watched the prince and his unknown second impassively. Laertes shifted his grip on his foil, lips a thin line, but otherwise didn’t move or speak at all.

Horatio held himself still as he watched from the sidelines, Juliet to his right. She watched her own husband with a stab of nervousness but knew she'd done everything she could at this point. If the queen chose to do nothing, or if somehow the medicine failed or the king had more up his sleeve than she realized, then Juliet would have to come up with another plan. And she would. She was good at that. She would not lose her husband again, and she refused to lose either of her Danes now either.

"He'll be ok, your prince," she muttered to Horatio, stifling a yawn. He only barely tipped his head to acknowledge her and kept his eyes on Hamlet.

"I hope you're right," he replied finally.

God, she did too.

It was a quick process to get dressed and then select foils, and Horatio watched it all with a strange sense of misgiving. It all looked perfectly appropriate, and yet he couldn't shake the prickles on his skin as he looked up at the king and over at Laertes and his hulking, unknown second. Laertes, so prone to temper and wild snaps of emotion, was too calm, too casually unconcerned. Even someone who had only known Laertes for a day would know this wasn't like him.

"My lord," Horatio hissed, and Hamlet looked up to meet his gaze. There must have been something in his expression because the prince approached immediately.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, stepping close and ducking his head.

"Laertes," Horatio whispered back. "This isn't like him."

"I know," Hamlet replied, glancing over his shoulder at the other man. "Something's not right here."

"Then--" Horatio began but was cut off by the king's voice calling Hamlet back and reminding him of his duty, voicing issuing all the command and disappointment it could.

The prince didn't even acknowledge him and continued to look at Horatio, expression unbearably tender.

"I'll be ok," he said with a soft smile and reached to cup the back of the other man's head and lean in. Horatio twitched back.

"You can't do that here," he whispered sharply. "The king and queen, the courtiers, they'll all see!" Yet Horatio didn’t move out of the grip of the prince’s hand.

"I don't care," Hamlet replied and closed the distance, pressing his lips to Horatio's for one lingering moment.

For that moment, anything else vanished, but all too quickly the prince was gone, and the nerves returned to muddle up with the warm feelings in Horatio's chest.

The whispering and appalled sounds from the courtiers were audible when Hamlet drew back and turned toward the king and queen. For once, their expressions had lost their royal composure and looked confused and shocked and embarrassed at once. The queen was looking quickly between her son and Horatio, cheeks pink, and the king looked personally offended.

"Hamlet--" the king began, voice patronizing. 

"Oh like I can be more of a disappointment to you," Hamlet spat in return, and then twirled his sword toward Laertes. "Shall we?"

Laertes looked similarly aghast, but he snapped out of it quickly and raised his own foil. The two men watched each other as the fencing master explained the rules, both barely listening. Then they stepped closer and crossed their swords.

“I do want to say,” Hamlet said before they began, and Laertes looked surprised again, “I truly do regret what happened to your father. I really wasn’t… myself recently, and I hope you know that I would never have intentionally hurt you or your family. Not, you know, this Hamlet,” he finished with a gesture around himself with his free hand. 

The surprised expression stayed on Laertes’ face, and his eyes briefly flickered to the king before returning to Hamlet.

“I…” Laertes began and then that strange, calm expression returned again, “I accept your apology. But that doesn’t change the need for this duel.”

Hamlet raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet.

“It’s a matter of honor,” Laertes finished, a bit quickly, but Hamlet simply nodded. "For my father. For my position as a gentleman."

“Well, then let’s get this over with, huh?” Hamlet asked, tapping his sword briefly against the other man’s. At the fencing master's agreement, they both pulled on their fencing masks.

“Before you begin,” the king announced, standing and seeming to suppress his previous disgust, “I’ll place this goblet on the table in front of me and drink to my dear son’s victory at his first hit.”

Hamlet snorted and didn’t look back at the king, but the king continued anyway.

“And I will place a pearl into this wine as a prize for the victor,” he finished, pulling a perfect, shimmering pearl from a pocket and holding it up for the assembly to see.

Beside Horatio, Juliet swore under her breath. He swung to look at her in surprise, but she didn’t respond, simply stared at the king as he set the pearl down beside the goblet. She chewed her bottom lip.

“Alright,” the fencing master said at the nod from the king. “Begin.”

Laertes took an immediate and aggressive stab forward, which Hamlet jumped back and dodged, snapping the sword away. Laertes looked surprised but recovered quickly, taking another quick jab, which Hamlet also parried. The sound of the swords rang through the hall until Hamlet dipped forward with his own jab, which caught Laertes in the leg.

“That’s a hit,” Hamlet announced, stepping back.

“Not at all,” Laertes growled, sword still raised.

“A solid hit,” the judge announced.

“There now, let me drink to our dear Hamlet’s hit!” the king said, lifting the goblet and taking a slow drink. “This pearl to the victor!” He dropped it into the goblet with a small splash. “Come, Hamlet, drink to your victory?”

Hamlet looked back at him with obvious irritation even through the mask, and he didn't keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I think I’ll finish this first set, thanks.”

“Alright, again,” the fencing master announced, setting them up again.

The next bout took longer, although Laertes attacked with no less ferocity, and Hamlet did prove himself to have a skill at it that apparently very few had been expecting. Horatio thought of Scotland and had to allow himself a slim smile, although he wished this was just another example of some bad acting. But clearly no one was acting this time. 

Hamlet scored another hit, which seemed to just make Laertes angrier and lead to more of the king encouraging him to drink from the goblet. Hamlet once more refused with his typical scorn, nodded once toward Horatio, and then returned to his starting position.

The next bout began, but this time Laertes, face wild and desperate rushed forward. With no sense of proper procedure, he threw himself at the prince, grabbed for Hamlet’s mask, and stabbed forward with his foil into Hamlet’s left arm. The mask was yanked free, and Hamlet yelled something and stumbled back, swiping blindly with his sword. The fencing master and the crowd all shouted, but Laertes drew back, smiling. Finally, Hamlet let some of the anger simmer and realized that his arm hurt much more than it should have for a hint from a blunt foil. In fact, red was starting to spread from the wound into the white of the jacket.

“Sharpened foils?” Hamlet snapped, looking up. “Really, Laertes, you cheating son of a bitch.”

Juliet watched, waiting for signs, waiting for something. It'd be obvious, happen quickly, right? She watched Hamlet closely, the blood on his sleeve, and grabbed Horatio's arm.

Before anyone could stop him, Hamlet threw his foil aside and leapt at Laertes, grabbing hold of him and dragging him to the ground. In a moment, he’d also yanked off Laertes’ mask, but the larger man punched upward and sent Hamlet tumbling to the side. The courtiers were shouting, and the fencing master was darting around the now wrestling and shouting pair, trying to separate them, and Horatio would have darted in the fray as well if not for Juliet’s firm hand on his arm. In the scuffle, Hamlet caught hold of Laertes sword and got back to his feet. Before Laertes could recover and figure out what was happening, Hamlet took a stab at him as well, jabbing him in the thigh. Laertes gasped and stumbled back, staring in horror.

"What have you done?" he asked, eyes wide.

"What have  _ I  _ done?" Hamlet barked back. "You--"

“Enough, enough!” the queen said and then picked up the goblet and held it out. “Let’s act appropriately and not like animals!"

Both combatants looked back at her, panting from the fray, and she nodded approvingly. There was something different in her face now, something like what she’d looked like before the old king had died, before she’d married Claudius.

“Come on, my son, let me drink to your health,” the queen said, smiling with a genuine kindness down at him. "To an honorable duel!" She raises the goblet to her lips.

“Gertrude,” the king said quietly, “don’t drink.”

She looked at him, her expression strange. “No, I think I’ll drink to my son’s health.” 

Juliet squeezed harder into Horatio's arm.

The queen's eyes narrowed. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t, is there?” She raised the goblet again, eyes still on the king, but he didn’t move to stop her again. The queen began to tip the goblet to her lips.

“It’s poisoned!” Juliet screamed from beside Horatio, which made him jump, and then she was running toward the king and queen.

The courtiers once more broke out into whispers and gasps and shouts, a few leaping to their feet.

“Guards!” the king yelled. “Restrain this girl!”

But Juliet continued to run, grabbing the goblet from Gertrude, who allowed her to take it without a fight, still glaring at the king. The guards hadn’t moved, and the king noticed.

“You will obey me!” he yelled, jabbing toward Juliet. “Arrest this traitor!”

Juliet glared at the guards, as if challenging them to actually come after her, and held the goblet like a weapon. The guards continued to hesitate, and the king shouted again.

Laertes looked down at the blood spreading from his thigh, his hand over the puncture wound.

“No,” he said, “no, the girl is right.” He looked at Hamlet again, face pale. “You’re dead, Hamlet. Already dead. And I am too. Poisoned by the same blade, a plot I should never have agreed to.” He took a breath and raised his eyes toward the king, who now watched him with fury. “The king--the king’s to blame.”

Chapter 28

“Treason!” someone in the crowd shouted, and more people echoed the sentiment, although whether they were directing it at Laertes or at Claudius wasn’t clear. 

Hamlet wheeled around to look at the king, the royal, emotionless mask gone as he stared at the room with rage and fear.

Then the ballroom descended into chaos.

The king grabbed for Juliet, who threw the goblet of wine at him, and the queen shouted that it was true, all true, that the king was a poisoner, was the true traitor. Romeo was there with his foil, swinging it a bit like a whip at the king as he dared to grab Juliet by the arm, wine dripping down his robes. The queen screamed for the guards, and now the guards listened, moving toward the thrones. But the king clearly had allies as well, and those courtiers and guards moved out of the crowd with their own weapons raised. Osric, screaming about treachery, fled completely out of the room.

Horatio was at Hamlet’s side immediately, pressing a palm into the blood coming from his arm. Tears burned in his eyes.

Juliet yanked away from the king, and Romeo slashed at him again, which really didn’t do anything except act as a fabulous distraction, since his foil remained unsharpened. But it did enough to keep the king from fleeing as the guards approached. But now some of the courtiers were fighting the guards as well, slashing at them to keep the king in power, keep their own positions secure. The queen continued to shout about treason, about how she’s trusted Claudius, about how she hadn’t wanted to believe this strange girl, how Ophelia in her madness had been right to judge him.

The room continued to ring with chaos, voices arguing and shouting, weapons banging against each other, feet stomping against the floor.

Hamlet felt slightly lightheaded, but whether that was poison or just exertion, blood loss, and adrenaline, he wasn’t sure. But still he clung to Horatio’s hand over his wound, watching the king continue to shout for the guards and stumble away from Romeo and Juliet's advances. Hamlet swung the sharpened blade that way.

Revenge. He could take revenge now. Even if it was his last breath, maybe he could make his father proud. He took a step toward the throne.

Laertes, poisoned or not, knew what he’d done now, how he’d been used. He threw a fist at a guard trying to subdue him, but then his second was there, dropping a shattering blow against his head. Laertes crumpled, and the second turned to fight off a few guards with his own sharpened blade, continuing his loyalty to the king. More courtiers fled or fought, flooding the ballroom, whether to shout and flee or to fight on their chosen side. Juliet and Romeo stayed in the fray, fighting with courtiers that tried to protect the king or working to keep him from fleeing himself.

The king was wild-eyed as a rabbit now, looking for escape. That in and of itself was satisfying for the prince, to see his uncle finally faced with being found out, losing the power and control he'd been willing to kill for.

Gertrude was still shouting, this time at the king, demanding answers. Had he truly killed Hamlet senior? Had his whole treatment of her been a lie? Had he truly been ready to murder her only son?

The king gave no response, glaring at her with a loathing he no longer disguised.

Hamlet took another few steps, working his way through the rabble of people, Horatio still against him. He kept his eyes on the king, blood pounding in his ears. 

No more nightmares. No more ghosts. No more being a bad son. The moment had come, and there was nothing left to stand in his way: no worry that the ghost had lied, that his mother was to blame, that maybe Claudius didn't deserve it, that maybe Hamlet wasn't stop enough to do it. He hefted the blade again, continued forward, goal in sight.

Then the pressure of Horatio at his side was ripped away, and Hamlet turned in surprise.

Laertes’ second had Horatio in a choke hold, dragging him backwards, clearly hoping to use Hamlet’s affection to protect the king. Horatio jabbed backward with his elbows and clawed at the arm around his neck, gasping and trying to shout. The second kept a hold on him and took another step back, dragging Horatio with him, eyes fixed on the prince.

There was a horrible moment where Hamlet saw Horatio dragged away, choking, and then looked back at the king, at his revenge. If there was ever a time, it was now. The king was defeated, revealed in his evil, and he was vulnerable. Just one blow with this poisoned sword and no more nightmares, no more burden. Maybe it would doom him to hell as he died, turn him into as bad a person as Claudius. But at least his father would be avenged, Hamlet’s duty done. At the end, just before he died, he could finally be a good son.

Hamlet looked back at Horatio, still held and choked by the second. It was the briefest instance to look at his friend, his lover’s face, pained and frightened. They couldn’t have a future anyway, not if Hamlet was poisoned. It would be hopeless to try to protect him now. On the other side of the room, his revenge was right there, waiting to be taken, waiting to be claimed.

A moment of deliberation, thoughts moving too quickly through Hamlet's brain, those thoughts and worries a net that had always trapped him. He shook his head. He would not be trapped now.

Because in the end, there wasn’t a question, not really. Hamlet turned away from the king and went after Horatio. 

Maybe he was a bad son, a disappointment, a disgrace, a bad prince. Maybe he’d always be plagued by nightmares, by that pain in his chest, or maybe he’d die right here unfulfilled and purposeless. 

But he would not be a bad person, and he would not abandon Horatio.

The second hadn’t been expecting the savagery of the prince’s attack, and as soon as he realized that while, yes, this had definitely drawn the prince away from the king, now he was at the mercy of the poisoned blade. And Hamlet wielded the poisoned blade with wild abandon, jabbing and slashing at the man as much as possible without hurting Horatio, who continued to struggle against the second’s grip. One well-placed jab from Hamlet coupled with a very strong elbow to the solar plexus from Horatio did finally force the man’s arms apart as he stumbled back. Hamlet was immediately there to catch Horatio as he lurched forward, tucking him into his arms even as the bleeding one ached. Horatio righted himself quickly and pulled in deep gulps of air, clinging to the prince again.

“You…” Horatio managed, “the king…” He gasped again, grabbing Hamlet’s arm and looking at him desperately. “Your revenge, Hamlet.”

“Fuck revenge,” Hamlet said, and realized he meant it. He wobbled slightly, but Horatio straightened to compensate and keep him upright.

“Hamlet…” the other man said, reaching for his face. 

Horatio's eyes were brilliant with tears, but Hamlet couldn’t look at them, couldn’t think about the poison, losing Horatio forever. He had him now, could at least see him safely through this, and he kissed his forehead and looked back at the king and queen. Horatio looped an arm around his waist.

The scuffle of the room was finally starting to quiet, and it seemed that the guards were winning over the courtiers, who may have had the intention of fighting but certainly weren’t made for it. And even the guards loyal to Claudius were being subdued, knocked out or tied up or running from the room in hopes of escape. The queen was still standing, shouting commands to the guards and loyal courtiers. Amazingly, it was Romeo and Juliet who had the king pinned to his throne with swords pointed at his chest that they must have stolen off of other people in the room. 

Hamlet and Horatio stumbled toward the thrones, and those people still scattered around the ballroom made way for them. The king watched the prince with eyes full, for the first time, of his real, uninhibited hatred.

"You're done, Claudius," Hamlet announced, breath still coming in pants.

“We'll see,” he said, glaring at Hamlet still and spitting like he could produce venom, “but at least you'll die and never take the throne, you pathetic bitch of a prince.”

"Oh I'll be sure you never see this throne again," Gertride replied, "whether my son survives or not."

"He's dead," the king spat. "There's no cure for that poison."

Hamlet glared back, still woozy, but the fear did tense again in his stomach. Horatio tightened his grip on his waist.

“Oh,” Juliet said suddenly, shaking her sword at the king, “right, I forgot to say in all the confusion. If he hasn't felt the effect yet then no he's not dying, actually.”

The king’s gaze jerked up to her face.

“Yeah,” Juliet continued, smiling down at him, “I found your poison and replaced it with a basic medicine that looks about the same instead. Did it last night while you were sleeping." Her smile twisted down. "You should really treat your personal guards better."

The king’s face was slowly changing to one of increased horror.

“I saw the pearl too, in your weird little stash, but I didn’t think anything of it, so when you suddenly brought it out, I put the pieces together.” Juliet said it all idily, but for everyone else in the room who thought they’d just been poisoned, everything was going a bit blurry at the edges. "But no one's been poisoned by you today, your majesty. You just given them a minor dose of something your court physician graciously brewed up for me."

“You little--” the king began, voice in a low hiss.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ say anything to my wife,” Romeo snarled, stabbing his sword toward the king again, and the king fell silent, still glaring and snarling like a cornered dog.

Hamlet looked down at Horatio and at the blood on his arm. Then he looked back up at Juliet, who looked over her shoulder at him.

“No poison?” he asked.

“No poison,” Juliet replied, grinning at him. “I couldn’t let one of my idiots die, now could I?”

“Juliet,” Hamlet said, stumbling forward, “you are the most fantastic friend anyone could ever have, if I didn’t love this man right here, I could kiss you.” He squeezed Horatio’s shoulder, and the other man chuckled.

Juliet simply smiled, glad she'd listened to her gut and insomnia last night, and glad she was apparently so good at getting people to give her bizarre medicines. And at making friends with palace guards. And pretending to be a spy.

Admittedly, she supposed she'd had it in her all along.

“Hey, what about me?” Romeo said, jiggling his sword at the king again.

“You know what, I could kiss you too,” Hamlet replied, stepping up toward the thrones at last, and Romeo grunted.

“Not what I meant…” Romeo muttered.

“My son,” the queen said, coming forward to take Hamlet’s face and wipe it gently with a handkerchief. “I’m so sorry.” Tears started down her cheeks. “Can you ever forgive me for not believing you, for trusting Claudius?”

“Well,” Hamlet replied, looking over at the pinned Claudius before looking back at his mother, “you trusted the right people in the end, and I guess… that’s what matters.” He nodded toward Claudius. “So what will you do with him?”

“What will  _ I  _ do with him?” Gertrude replied. “You should be king now, so his punishment is up to you.”

Juliet and Romeo looked back at the prince in surprise, and Horatio looked up at him, waiting.

But Hamlet simply gave a bark of laughter. “Everyone here knows I’d make a terrible king. I’ve spent too long pretending overwise.” 

He looked at Claudius again, who continued to glare, even as he sneered a smile.

"At least you know you're a worthless--" the king began, but it was Gertrude now that approached him, pushing past Juliet and Romeo.

"Don't you dare," she growled, jabbing a finger at him and bringing forth the full power of her royal presence, "say another word about my son."

The king actually did shut his mouth again, looking up at the queen with a note of fear.

"So, Hamlet?" the queen asked, and he looked over at her in surprise.

“I don’t care what you do with him,” he said after a moment, realizing it was true. “He’s dethroned, he’s lost his power, he’s lost his queen, so I’d say my father’s been properly avenged.” 

He looked at the queen again, her full presence, the regal set of her head, and actually felt connected to her for the first time in a long time. “You’re the ruler of Denmark now unless you want to elect someone else--Laertes there, the Norweigans coming, I don’t care."

The queen grunted. "Never. Our family is meant to rule Denmark, and I truly believe you'll make an excellent king like your father someday."

Hamlet shrugged. "Maybe. But until then, I leave Denmark and Claudius in your hands,” he smiled, just a little, “Mom.”

So it was decided, and the queen would continue to rule Denmark until Hamlet felt himself worthy (which he still personally felt might be "never"), but the murderer at least was dethroned and would be punished for his crimes. The queen hugged her son, somewhat awkwardly patted Horatio on the shoulder, and thanked Juliet again for speaking to her and being brave enough to warn her about Claudius.

"I owe you much, Juliet," the queen said, "for saving my son and for being willing to speak to me about Claudius even on the pain of treason, and for that, you will always be a friend to Denmark."

Juliet blushed but bowed and accepted the praise.

At last, Claudius was dragged to the dungeon along with his fellow traitors including Laertes' second.

"Not Laertes," Hamlet said immediately. "He was trying to avenge his father, just like I was, and I can't blame him for being manipulated by Claudius to do it."

The queen agreed and instead had Laertes carried out to receive medical attention. With one last bow to the queen, Hamlet and Horatio headed toward a medic as well, followed by Romeo and Juliet. The ballroom went quiet again, the crowd scattered, and Romeo took his wife's hand as they walked, squeezing warmly. Horatio took a moment to press a kiss to Hamlet's cheek, and the prince smiled over at him, warm and strangely at peace for the first time in a long time.

And so, like so many of the other plays in the confused collection,  _ Hamlet _ ended far differently than intended when left to the whims of its changed and misplaced characters. Those same characters were then able to continue their lives along without us, doing all those regular and not so regular things that didn’t end up important enough to be plotted and yet make up what life is really about.

Epilogue:

“Stop scratching at it,” Horatio chided. “It’s been less than a week, and you’ll mess up your stitches.”

“But it itches,” Hamlet whined, picking at the bandaging around his arm where the foil had gone in.

He and Horatio were comfortably slouched on his bed as he rubbed at his arm, and Romeo and Juliet sat in chairs near them. It was a much smaller, and much less tense, bedroom meeting this time.

Horatio laughed. “What are you, a child?”

“Yes,” Juliet answered, laughing too, and Hamlet tossed the rest of the bandage roll at her.

"I'm a future king, madam," Hamlet said with mock severity.

"Or a disgraced prince who’s basically given up the throne," Juliet replied, throwing the roll back at him.

"Children!" Horatio said, looking to Romeo for support.

The younger man, who had definitely sobered some after what happened with Polonius and being worried he'd lose Juliet during the scene in the ballroom, took the roll from Juliet before she could throw it back at the prince again. Juliet pouted at him, and he chuckled and kissed her nose. Horatio was glad to have someone else with a bit more maturity in the group, and so he finally sat back against the wall, only occasionally smacking at Hamlet when he started to scratch again.

“So,” Romeo said, spinning the roll between his hands, “what do we do now? You’ve essentially given up the throne,” he said with a gesture at Hamlet, before shaking a thumb between himself and Juliet, “and we’ve got no way that we know of to get back to Verona, not that we’d necessarily want to anyway, and you…” he gestured over at Horatio, “actually, I’m still not sure what your thing is.”

“I go where he goes,” Horatio replied, with a head jerk toward the not-quite prince who was still poking at his bandages. At the statement, though, he stopped and leaned into Horatio's shoulder for a moment instead.

“So…” Romeo said, looking over at Hamlet, “where’s that then?”

Hamlet shrugged. “I dunno, honestly. I didn’t think I’d ever get this far.” He glanced over at Horatio and smiled. The other man returned it. 

“What about you two?” Hamlet asked, looking between Romeo and Juliet. “After the whole ‘secret marriage, fake my death’ part, what was the plan?”

Juliet looked over at Romeo and took his hand. “To explore, and be together,” she replied, grinning at her husband, who returned the tender expression, “and be happy.”

“Huh,” Hamlet replied, and poked at Horatio with a toe while grinning at him too, “not such a bad plan honestly.”

Horatio rolled his eyes but smiled. “Not much of a plan at all, really.”

“Are you even  _ capable _ of being happy?” Juliet asked, narrowing her eyes at Hamlet, who actually laughed.

“You know, maybe not before,” he replied, thinking of those months alone, the ghost, the darkness, the fear. 

He still had nightmares some, but they were less frequent and less intense, just like the ache under his sternum. There, maybe forever, but more manageable now that he wasn’t alone, had people to live for, and didn't feel that burden around his neck anymore. The ghost of his father was smaller and quieter now, and the caged feel of Denmark had begun to fade. And he had Horatio. And real friends. He couldn’t stop the fond look he gave around the room, which felt a bit strange. 

“But I think I might be able to be happy now,” Hamlet finished. “So where do we start?”

Eventually, the four of them simply set out to explore, to be together, and to be happy. It helped, of course, that one of their members did still have a queen for a mother, who certainly didn’t mind funding them, and it helped that all of them had nowhere they really had to be. Hamlet and Horatio decided to return to school eventually, but for now, the world was wide open. For all four of the characters, their stories were done, and there was a strange and satisfying relief to that. So they watched Ophelia perform with her theater troupe, visited Laertes in France, and even checked out this version of Verona, which was quite different from the one Romeo and Juliet had left. They explored Scotland, and Greece, and whatever other places they thought they ought to see more of as themselves this time, rather than having to try to be someone else.

In the end, no one did pick up that confused collection forgotten in the bookstore and set it to right, but maybe that was for the best. Those characters, in whatever plays they ended up in or whichever ones they continue to move through, just lived their lives how they wanted to. No more scripts and no more plot lines. And in many ways, that book became the happiest collection of Shakespeare plays out there.

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for reading! If you want, you can follow me on tumblr at @speaktomeinpaganprayers for my regular blog or @onmyliteraturebullshitagain for my lit humor only blog. :)


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